^\ 




3 8. J SADXXCH 3. CO. T^TXTWH^DEKL 



THE 




RELAND. 



A Choice Collection of Literary Gems from the Masterpieces of the 
Great Irish Writers, with Biographical Sketches. 



BY JOHN 0"KANE MURRAY. B.S.. 

M 

AUTHOR OF 

A Popular History of the Catholic Churchill the United States,'''' '''■Lessons in English 

Literature,^'' etc., etc. 



' No people who do not often look back to their ancestors can look forward to posterity." — Edward Burkh. 
We must confine ourselves to the masterpieces of great names ; we have not time for the rest." — Lacordairf. 



VITA SLVE LITER IS MOR.S EST. 



^ No. 



cur . '"Vj^i- « 

XcU) Yorft: 
PETEE F. COLLIE IV. PUBLISriEE. 

1877. 






COPYRIGHT. PETER F. COLLIER. 1 877. 



TO 



SCljt jjri0|) ^toplt 



THEIR WORTHY DESCENDANTS IN AMERICA— 

BRAVE, BRIGHT, K^OBLE, FAITHFUL, AJs^D KIXD-HEARTED RACE — 

THIS VOLUME ON 

Ki^t Prose antr iioett^ of Bear (BVn Krelantr, 

IS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY THEIR VERY TRULY AND DEVOTEDLY^ 

JoHK O'KAifE Murray. 

April, 1877. 



PREFACE. 



WHY this book ? Briefly, because it is intended to supply a 
widely-felt want ; because there is no other work of the kind ; 
because I earnestly hope it will do some good, and will be found of 
value in thousands of homes in this Republic. 

As we gaze at night on the beautiful, star-lit firmament, we are 
struck with the fact that star differs from star in brightness. And 
though thousands of stars dazzle the eye with their twinkles, yet as- 
tronomers tell us that there are but twenty^two whose brightness 
and splendor entitle them to be called ^^ stars of the first magni- 
tude." So it is in the world of letters. There are thousands of 
writers, but the truly great ones are not yery numerous. 

In sweeping our somewhat inexperienced telescope over the dis- 
tant literary sky of Ireland, we fancied that we saw twenty-two 
shining names, whose superior brightness could not be mistaken- 
After much thought and careful comparison, we set them down. 
They are the twenty-two authors whose writings enrich the pages of 
this volume. Of course, the limited size of the book compelled us 
to stop somewhere, and the suggestive number just referred to, was, 
for more than one reason, admirably convenient. 

On Ireland and the Irish race, the writings of these illustrious 
men and women reflect immortal honor. It is my firm conviction 
that no other nation of ancient or modern times can point to twen- 
ty-two such glorious names in the history of its literature. 

While the selections are very choice, and are made on the princi- 
ples of beauty and utility, still I hope I have not failed to present 
an agreeable variety. Here, side by side, can be found the familiar 
letter, the learned lecture, the interesting chapter of history, the 
soul-stirring speech, the charming essay, the fascinating tale, and 
the matchless poem. 

The plan of the volume, which I am free to say was not hastily 
laid down, forced me to exclude many famous writers whose great 
merits no one is more ready to recognize than myself. 

This is a book for the people, for the family. It is a select little 



4 Preface, 

library oj Irish literature in one volume. And, if I am not greatly 
mistaken, it will prove of more than mere passing value, above all, 
to the Irish and their descendants in the United States. The 
young will find it rich in mental nourishment, and even the aged 
and the learned can glean something from its pages. The father 
who puts this work into the hands of his children — it is not a book 
merely to look at — and sees that they read it, will do much to de- 
velop) a healthy taste for good, sound literature, to enrich and elevate 
their minds, and to give tbem just conceptions of Irish wit and 
worth and valor and genius. 

I feel that I can confidently commend " The Prose and Poetry of 
Ireland " to Catholic families as entirely free from anything dan- 
gerous to faith and morals. 

Regardless of heavy ex23ense, Mr. P. P. Collier, the energetic pub- 
lisher, is issuing it in a style which, indeed, reflects no small credit 
on his good taste and enlightened enterprise. 

Por kind courtesies, which aided me not a little during the pre- 
paration of this volume, I return my warm thanks to Eev. M. J. 
O'Farrell, the learned and devoted pastor of St. Peter's Church, 
New York City; John Savage, LL.D., Pordham, 1^. Y. ; Aubrey 
De Yere, Esq., Curragh Chase, Adare, Ireland ; Sister Mary Prancis 
Clare, Kenmare Convent, Ireland ; Hon. W. E. Eobinson, Brook- 
lyn, K Y. ; Mr. J. C. Curtin, editor of the New York Tablet ; Rev. 
Brother Justinian, Director of the Christian Brothers, Brooklyn, 
N. Y. ; and last, though not least, to my sister. Miss Murray, and 
to my brotliers, Mr. B. P. Murray and Mr. J. J. Murray. 

I cannot better conclude these prefatory remarks than by quoting 
the words of two of the greatest minds that ever shed a lustre ou 
the history of the Catholic Church : 

^"^The reading of literary masterpieces," writes the great and 
pious Lacordaire, " not only forms the taste, but it keeps the soul 
in elevated regions and prevents it from sinking down into vul- 
garity. " 

'' Literature," says the illustrious Pope Leo X., "is the ornament 
and glory of the Church. I have always remarked that it knits its 
cultivators more firmly to the dogmas of our faith." 

J. O'K. M. 

BROOKLYiq-, L. I., April 14, 1877. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Biographical Index, 6 

Introductory Remarks, 9 

Chronological Table of Irish Writers, . 10 

St. Columbkelle. 

Life of, '. 13 

Selections from his Poems, 37 

Rev. Brother Michael O'Clery, O.S.F. 

Life of, 39 

Selections from "The Annals of the Four Masters," .... 48 

Sir Richard Steele. 

Life of, 89 

Selections from his Writings, 95 

Rev. Jonathan Swift, D.D. 

Life of, 117 

Selections fi'om his Writings, 148 

Oliver Goldsmith, M.D. 

Life of, 192 

Selections from his Writings, 197 

Sir Philip Francis. ' 

Life of, 274 

Selections from the " Letters of Junius," 277 

Right Hon. Edmund Burke. 

Life of, 294 

Selections from his Writings, 300 

Right Hon. Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 

Life of, 314 

Selections from his Writings, 320 

Right Hon. Henry Grattan. 

Life of 331 

Selections from his Speeches, 338 

Right Rev. Dr. Doyle, O.S.A. 

Life of, 357 

Selections from his Writing.*, 364 

5 



6 Contents. 

Gerald Grifftn. page 

Life of, 383 

Selections from his Writings, 388 

John Banim. 

Life of, 412 

Selections from his Writings, 417 

Thomas Davis, M.E.I.A. 

Life of, 441 

Selections from his Writings, 444 

Daotel O'Connell, M.P, 

Life of, 463 

Selections from his Speeches and Letters, 468 

Right Hon. Richard Lalor Sheil. 

Life of, . 483 

Selections from his Speeches and Writings, 485 

Thojias Moore. 

Life of, 502 

Selections from his Writings, 509 

Professor Eugene O'Curry, M.R.I. A. 

Life of, 627 

Selections from his Lectmres, 630 

Hon. Thomas D'Argy McGee, B.C.L. 

Life of, 651 

Selections from his Writings, 656 

Most Rev. John MacHale, D.D. 

Life of, • 670 

Selections from his Grace's Writings, 675 

Mrs. James Sadlier, 

Life of, 690 

Selections from her Writings, 692 

Rev. Sister Mary Francis Clare. 

Life of, 710 

Brief selections from her Writings, .... ... 712 

Very Rev. Thomas N. Burke, O.P. 

Life of, 717 

Selections from his " Lectures, " 719 

Miscellany, 741 



^*:^ For any particular, poem, essay, lecture, etc., consult General Index at 
the close of the volume. 



BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX. 



Banim, John, 
Biirke, Edmund, 
Burke, Very Rev. T. N., 

Clare, Sister Mary Francis, 
Columbkille, St., . 

Davis, Thomas, 

Doyle, Eight Rev. James, 

Francis, Sir Philip, 

Grattan, Henry, 

Goldsmith, Oliver, . 
GiifBn, Gerald, 

McGee, Thomas D'Arcy, 
MacHale, Most Rev. John, 
Moore, Thomas, 

O'Clery, :\Iichael, . 
O'ConneU, Daniel, . 
O'Curry, Eugene, . 

Sadlier, Mrs. J. , . 
Shell, Richard Lalor, 
Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 
Steele, Sir Richard, 
Swift, Rev. Jonathan, 



PASE 

412 
294 
717 

710 
13 

441 
357 

374 

331 
192 
383 

651 
670 
502 

39 
463 
627 

690 
483 
314 

89 
117 



^*ji See General Index at the end of the volume for the writers whose poems 
are given in the Miscellany. 



INTRODUCTORY REMARKS. 



"1~T is not our intention to weary the reader with a long introdnc- 
-^ tion. A "few words must suffice. 

^^Eveiy remarkable man,*' writes Lacordaire, •'has been fond of 
letters." The same can be said of every remarkable nation. 

The Irish have always been a literary people. To song and 
legend and history they have clung through sunshine and shadow 
with the same lofty tenacity as to faith and fatherland. 

^N'o misfortune has been able to dull the Irish mind, however it 
might check its expression. War with the Danes failed. War 
with the Saxon and Xorman failed. The loss of national inde- 
pendence failed. Penal laws failed. The whole infernal ma- 
chinery of English tyranny failed. In short, everything failed. 
This is one of the wonders of history. 

If we would understand the philosoj)hy of such a singular fact, 
we must view the Irish race from both a natural and a supernatural 
standpoint. The true Celt is, above all other men, gifted with fine 
sentiments, generous impulses, and a capacity to admire the good, 
the beautiful, the sublime. Thus, by nature, he is a lover of litera- 
ture. But there is a still higher view to be taken. The Catholic 
religion harmonizes with his nature, at the same time that it ele- 
vates his mind and spiritualizes his faculties. Xature and religion 
have thus combined to mould his genius. St. Columbkille is an 
illustration. 

The glory of a nation is her illustrious sons. When their manly 

frames and splendid intellects have jjassed away, still their bright 

memories, like so many stars, illumine the national firmament. As 

9 



lo Introdttctory Remarks. 

a precious inlieritance, their noble deeds and inspiring words 2:)ass 
down to posterity, and the influence of their careers is felt to the 
last day of a nation's existence. 

" A nation's greatness lies in men, not acres ; 
One master-mind is worth a million hands ; 
No kingly robes have marked the planet-shakers, 
But Samson-strength to burst the ages' bands." ^ 

This is especially true of the great writers, the rulers of thought, 
the men who have given to the world ^^ truths that wake to perish 
never," men who evermore influence the destinies of the human 



race. 



1 John Boyle O'Beiily, " A Nation's Test." 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE OF IRISH WRITERS. 



Kcmie. Date of Death. Chief Work. 

Oisin (also -written Ossian) 3d Cent'y • • Fenian Poems. 

Dubththach O'Lugair. Sth " ..Poems. 

St. Columbkille 597 Poems. 

St. Fiaco 6th Cent'y. Metrical Life of St. Patrick. 

St. Simhin . .. 6th '' .Tripartite Life of St. Patrick. 

St. Evin Life of St. Bridget. 

St. Adamnan 70-3 Life of St. Columbkille. 

John Scotus Eregina 875 (about). Works on Philosophy and Theology. 

Cormac Cullinan 933 Psalter of Cashe) . 

M. O'Carroll 1009 Annals of Inisfallen. 

Flann 1058 Synchronisms 

Gilla Caemhain 1072 Chronological Poem. 

Tighernach 1088 Annals of Tighernach. 

Cathal Maguire 1498 Annals of Ulster. 

Most Rev. Florence Conroy, D.D 1629 Compendium of St. Augustine's Works. 

Most Rev. Peter Lombard. D.D 1632.... Commentary on Irish History. 

Rev. Hugh Ward, O S.F 1835 Irish Martyrology. 

Rev. Brother Michael O'Clary, O.S.F 1643 Annals of the Four Masters. 

Rev. Geoffrey Keating, D.D 1644 History of Ireland. 

James Ussher, D.D. 1653 Antiquities of the British Churches. 

Rev. Luke Wadding, O.S.F 1657 Annals of the Friars Minor. 

Rev. John Colgan, O.S.F 1658 Lives of the Irish Saints. 

Right Rev. John Lynch, D.D 17th Cen'y . Cambrensis Eversus. 

Sir James Ware 1666 Lives of the Irish Bishops. 

Duald Mac Firbis 1670 The Book of Mac Firbis. 

Right Rev. Nicholas French 1678 Sale and Settlement of Ireland, 

William Molyneaux . 1698. . . The Case of Ireland Stated. 

Roderick O'Flaherty 1718 Ogygia. 

Sir Richard Steele 1729 Essays. 

Jonathan Swift, D.D " 1745 Gulliver's Travels. 

Rev. Abbe MacGeoghegan 1750 History of Ireland. 

Bishop Berkeley, D.D 1753 ..The Minute Philosopher. 

OHver Goldsmith 1772 The Deserted Village 

EdmundBurke 1797 Reflections on the Revolution in France. 

Richard B. Sheridan 1816 The School for Scandal. 

John Philpot Curran 1817 Speeches. 

Sir Philip Francis 1818 Letters of Junius. 

Henry Grattan 1820 Speeches. 

Right. Rev. Dr. Doyle, O.S.A 18-34 Letters on the State of Ireland. 

Sir Jonah Barrington Rise and Fall of the Irish Nation. 

Matthew Carey 18-39 Ireland Vindicated 

Crerald Griffin 1840 The Collegians. 

4ohn Banim 1842 Th3 Boyne Water. 

Right Rev. Dr. England 1842 Essays on Various Subjects. 

WilUam Maginn. LL.D 1342 Miscellanies. 

Thomas Davis, M.R.I. A 1845 Poems and Essays. 

Sir Aubrey de Vere 1846 Julian, the Apostate. 

Daniel O'Connell 1847 Speeches. 

James Clarence Mangan 1849 Poems. 

Lady Blessington 1849 Many volumes of fiction. 

Richard Lalor Shell 1851 Sketches of the Irish Bar. 

Thomas Moore 1852 Irish Melodies. 



1 2 Chronological Table of Irish Writers, 

Name. Bate of Death. Chief Work. 

Most Rev Dr. Murray 1854 Sermons. 

Lady Morgan 1859 ..O'Donnell, 

Rev. George Croly , LL.D 1860 Life of Burke. 

Mrs. A. Jamieson 1860 ^he Poetry of ttacred and Legendary Art. 

John O'Donovan, LL D ...1861 . Grammar of the Irish Language. 

Eugene O'Curry, M R I A 1862 Lectures on the MS. Materials of Irish 

History. 

Richard Dalton Williams 1862 Poems. 

Most Rev. Dr Hughes 1863 Lectures, Essays, etc. 

Most Rev. F. P. Kenrick, D.D 1884 Primacy of the Apostolic See. 

Rev. Francis Mahony 1866 Reliques of Father Prout. 

T. D. McGee, B.C.L 1867 History of Ireland. 

T. F. Meagher, LL.D 1867 Speeches. 

Rev. Mr. Boyce Shandy McGuire. 

Samuel Lover 1868 Poems. 

Rev. Dr. Cahill Letters and Lectares. 

Henry Giles Lectures and Essays. 

Wniiam Carleton 1872 The Poor Scholar. 

Charles J. Lever, M.D 1872 Charles O'Malley. 

John Francis Maguire, M.P . . .The Irish in America. 

Rev. Dr. P. E. Moriarty, O.S.A 1875 Life of St. Augiistine. 

JohnMitchel 1875 History of Ireland. 

Most Rev. John MacHale, D.D Letters, etc. 

Mrs. J. Sadlier The Confederate Chieftains. 

Rev. T. N.Burke, OP Lectures 

Sister Mary Francis Clare History of the Irish Nation. 

Robert Joyce, MD Deirdre . 

Aubrey de Vere Alexander the Great. 

D. F. MacCarthy Poems. 

John Savage, LL.D The Poets and Poetry of Ireland. 

John Boyle O'Reilly Songs from the Southern Seas. 

Lady Wilde Poems. 

A. M. Sullivan Poems, etc. 

Rev. Dr. Patrick Murray Poems and Theological Works. 

W. J. Fitzpatrick, J.P Life aad Times of Dr. Doyle. 

William Collins Ballads, Poems, and Songs. 

Mrs. S. C. Hall Lights and Shadows of Irish Life. 

Sir C. G. Duffy Poems, etc. 

Thomas Mooney Lectures on Irish History. 

Rev. C. P. Meehan, M.R.I.A O'Neill and O'Donnell. 

R. Shelton Mackenzie, D.C.L Life of Sir Walter Scott, etc. 

R. R. Maddan, M.D Lives of the United Irishmen. 

John Cornelius O'Callaghan, M.R.I.A History of the Irish Brigade. 

E. B. O'Cailaghan, LL.D History of the New N etherlands. 

Rev. A. J. O'Reilly Martyrs of the Colosseum. 

Rev. Stephen Byrne, O. f^ Irish Emigration. 

Rev. William Gleeson, M.A History of the Catholic Church in Cali- 
fornia. 

Most Rev. Peter R Kenrick, D.D Holy House of Loretto. 

Rev. C. W, Russell, D.D Life of Cardinal Mezzofanti. 

John P. Prendergast Cromwellian Settlement of Ireland. 

Most Rev. John B. Piircell, D. D Campbell and Purcell Debate. 

Sir Robert Kane Resources of Ireland. 

W. B. MacCabe History of England. 

W. J. O'Neill Daunt Recollections of O'Connell. 

Martin Haverty History of Ireland. 

Hon. William E Robinson The Irish Element in America. 



THE 

Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 



ST. COLUMBKILLE, 

POET, MONK, APOSTLE OF SCOTLAND, AND PRINCE OF IRISH 

MISSIONARIES. 



'* Columbkille was born a poet and remained a poet to the last day of his 
life." — Count de Montalembert. 

ST. COLUMBKILLE, one of the most famous of Irish saints, 
poets, and missionaries, was born at Gartan, a wild district 
in the county of Donegal, on December 7, a.d. 521.' His father 
was descended from the great King ISTiall of the Nine Hostages,' 
who was sujDreme monarch of Ireland at the close of the fourth cen- 
tury. Before his birth, his mother, who belonged to a distinguished 
family in Leinster, had a dream which posterity has accepted as a 
graceful and poetical symbol of her son's career. An angel appear- 
ed to her, bringing her a veil covered with flowers of wonderful 
beauty and the sweetest variety of colors. Immediately after she saw 
the veil carried away by the wind, and rolling out as it fled ov^i' 

1 " The slab of stone," writes Montalembert, " upon which his mother lay at the moment 
of his birth is still shown He who passes a night upon that stone is cured for ever from 
the pangs of homesickness, and will never be consumed, while absent or in exile, by a 
too passionate love for his country. Such, at least, is the belief of the poor Irish emigrants, 
who flock thither at the monlent when they are about to abandon the confiscated and 
ravaged soil of their country to seek their living in America, moved by a touching recol- 
lection of the great missionary who gave up his native land for the love of God and hu- 
man souls." — " Monks of the West," vol. ii., Am. ed. 

Gartan is about the centre of the County. It is noted in the " Map of the Localities 
and Titles of the Principal Old Irish Families," in ihe Nan of Kenmare's "Illustrate;! 
History of Ireland." 

2 Because of the hostages taken from nine several powers, which he subdued and 
made tributary. 



1 4 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

plains, woods, and mountains. Then tlie angel said toiler : " Thou 
art about to become the mother of a son who shall blossom for 
heaven, who shall be reckoned among the prophets of God, and 
who shall lead numberless souls to the heavenly country. " ^ 

This saintly and illustrious man has been very fortunate in his 
biographers. His life, written by his cousin and ninth successor, St. 
Adamnan, is one of the most charmmg narratives in all early Chris- 
tian literature ; " and the story of his career told in our own day by 
the gifted and learned Count de Montalembert is certainly one of the 
most beautiful productions to be found in the whole range of Cath- 
olic biography. ^ 

In common with many other Irish saints, our poet-monk bore a 
name borrowed from the Latin, a name signifying the dove of the 
Holy Ghost. By Irish writers, however, he is nearly always called 
Columbkille, or dove of the cell. We use this name as that by 
which he is best known. 

The 2^riest who baptized the child also gave him the first rudi- 
ments of knowledge. From his earliest years Columbkille was 
accustomed to heavenly visions. Often, when his guardian angel 
would appear to him, the child would ask if all the angels in heaven 
were as young and shining as he. 

He afterwards passed into the great monastic schools, which were 
nurseries not only for the clergy of Ireland, but also for young lay- 
men of all conditions. Here manual toil was joined to study and 
prayer. Like all his young companions, Columbkille had to grind 
over night the corn for the next day's food ; but when his turn 
came, it was so well and quickly done that his companions suspected 
him of having been assisted by an angel. ^ Having completed his 
education and monastic training, he was ordained by his revered 

3 " The Monks of the West, " vol. ii, 

• The " Life of St. Columbkille," by Adamnan, ninth Abbot of lona, is -written in Latin. 
Twenty years ago it was reprinted after a MS. of the eighth century, and edited by Rev. Dr. 
Reeves, of Ballymena, for the Celtic Archaeological Society of Dublin. " Adamnan s Me- 
moir," writes Rev. Dr. Reeves, " is to be prized as an inestimable literary relic of tbe 
Irish Church — perhaps the most valuable monument of that institution which has escap- 
ed the ravage of time " (p. 36, Preface), and the Protestant divine might have added, of 
Enrjland. 

Adamnan, which is the diminutive of Adam, is a name of rare occurrence in Irish records. 
His life of St. Columbkille begins thus : " In nomine Jesu Christi orditur Prcefatio.''' 

5 The Count de ATontalembert's life of our Saint takes up 108 pages of vol. ii. '■ Monks of 
th( West, " in which he is invariably called Columba. We make free use of it in our 
brief sketch. 

'' O'Doniiell, i. 42, quoted by Montalembert. 



S^. ColMmbkille. 15 

master, the Abbot Finriian, founder of the renowned monastic 
school of Clonard. 

An incident is related of his student career at Clonard, when he 
was only a deacon. An old Bard came to live near the monastery. 
Columbkille, who at all times in life was a passionate admirer of 
Irish jooetry, determined to join the school of the Bard and to share 
his labors and his studies. One dav the two were readius" to- 
gether, at a little distance apart, out of doors. A young girl ran to- 
wards them, pursued by a robber. She, no doubt, hoped to find 
safety in the old Bard's authority. The latter called to his pupil 
for assistance. Scarcely, however, had the girl reached the spot 
than her pursuer, coming up, struck her with his lance, and she 
fell dead at their feet. ••'How long,'' exclaimed the horrified old 
man to Columbkille, '^^will God leave unpunished this crime which 
dishonors us ? " ^' For this moment only,'' replied the indignant 
vouns: monk — ^'^not lonsrer. At this verv hour, when the soul of 
this innocent creature ascends to heaven, the soul of the murderer 
shall go down to hell I" Scarcely were the words pronounced, 
when the wretched assassin fell dead. 

Soon, far and wide, Oolumbkille's name became famous. Closely 
allied to the reigning monarch of all Ireland, and eligible himself to 
the same high ofiice, it was very natural that his influence increased 
with his years. Before he reached the as^e of twentv-five. he had 
presided over the erection of a crowd of monasteries. Of these 
the chief were Durrow and Derry. He was especially attached to 
Derry. In the poem attributed to his old age he says so patheti- 
cally: 

' ' Were all the tribute of Sf^otia mine. 
From its midland to its bordei*s, 
I would give all for one little cell 
In my beautiful Derry. 
For its peace and for its purity, 
For the white angels that go 
V In crowds from one end to the other, 

I love my beautiful Derry ! " 

Columbkille was as much a bard as a monk during the first part 
of his life ; and he had the roving, ardent, agitated, and even quar- 
relsome character of the race. He hud also a passion for travelling, 
but a still greater one for books. Indeed, his intense love of books 
brought him more than one misadventure. He went everywhere iu 



1 6 TJlc Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

search of volumes whicli he could borrow or copy, often experienc- 
ing refusals that he bitterly resented. At the time of which we 
write, there was in Ossory a holy recluse, very learned doctor in 
laws and philosophy, named Longarad. Columbkille paid him a 
visit, and asked leave to examine his books. A du-ect refusal was 
given by the old man. ^Olay thy books," exclaimed Columbkille, 
'•'nolonorer do thee anv o^ood, neither to thee nor to those who come 
after thee, since thou takest occasion by them to show thy inhospi- 
tality." This curse was heard, according to the legend. As soon 
as old Longarad died his books became unintelligible. ^*They 
still exist," says an author of the ninth century, '"but no man can 
read them I '' 

Another narrative in the career of our poet-monk leads us to the 
decisive event which for ever chans^ed his destinv. and transformed 
him from a wandering poet and ardent book- worm into a great mis- 
sionary and apostle. While visiting his old master, the Abbot Fiu- 
nian, Columbkille found means to make a secret and hurried copy of 
the Abbot's Psalter by shutting himself up at night in the church 
where it was deposited, and illuminating his work by the light 
which escaped fi'om his left hand, while he wrote with the right. 
1'he Abbot Finnian discovered what was going on by means of a 
curious wanderer, who, attracted by that singular light, looked in 
through the keyhole. The wanderer's curiosity, however, met with 
swift j)unishment. While his face was pressed against the door, he 
had his eye suddenly torn out by a crane, one of those familiar 
birds that were permitted by the Irish monks to seek a home in 
their churches.' 

Finnian was indignant at what he considered a theft, and claimed 
the copy when it was finished, on the ground that a copy made 
without permission ought to belong to the master of the original, 
seeing that the transcription is but the child of the original book. 
Columbkille refused to give uj) his work, and the question was 
referred to the king in his palace at Tara. 

King Diarmid, at that time sujireme monarch of Ireland, was 
descended from the famous Xiall of the Xine . Hostages, and, con- 
sequently, related to Columbkille. However, he pronounced against 
his kinsman. The king's decision was given in a rustic 2:)brase which 
lias passed into a proverb in Ireland — To every coiv her calf,'' and, 

" O'Donnell, book ii. , quoted by Montalembert. 
^ " Le gach boin a boinin, le gach leahhar a leo.lhran.'' 



S^. Cohcmbkille. 17 

therefore, to every book its copy. Loudly did Columbkille protest. 
*^It is an unjust sentence." he exclaimed. •*and I T\ill revenge 
myself." Shortly after this another event occurred which still 
more irritated the poet-monk. A young prince, son of the King 
of Connaught, having transgressed in some way, took refuge with 
Columbkille, but was seized and put to death by order of King 
Diarmid. With prompt vengeance Columbkille threatened the 
supreme monarch. ^' I will denounce to my brethren and my 
kindred, thy wicked judgment," he said, '^ and the violation in my 
person of the immunity of the Church ; they will listen to my com- 
plaint and punish thee, sword in hand. Bad king, thou shalt no 
more see my face in thy province until God, the just Judge, has 
subdued thy pride. As thou hast humbled me to-day before thy 
lords and thy friends, God will humble thee on the battle day 
before thine enemies I " Diarmid attempted to retain him by 
force, but, evading the gn ards, Columbkille escaped by night from 
Tara, and directed his steps to his native province of Tirconnell. 
As he went on his lonely way, his soul found utterance in a j^ious 
song — ^' Tlie Song of Trust,'' ^ ''which," writes Montalembert, 
'•'has been preserved to us, and which may be reckoned among the 
most authentic relics of the ancient Irish tongue." ^° 

Columbkille arrived safely in his native province ; the powerful 
clans of Ulster were aroused as one man, and the aid of the King 
of Connaught, the father of the executed young prince, was easily 
obtained. The combined forces marched against Diarmid, who 
met them on the borders of Ulster and Connaught. The battle 
was short. Diarmid's armv was routed, and he fled, takinsf refug-e 
at Tara." According to the historian Tighernach, the victory was 
due to the jn-ayers and hymns of Columbkille, who for days had 
fasted and prayed to obtain from Heaven the punishment of royal 
insolence, and who besides was present at the battle, and took upon 
himself before all men the responsibility of the blood shed. ^" 

''As to the manuscript," says Montalembert, " which had been 
the object of this strange conflict of copyright elevated into a civil 

9 See page 36, 

" •' The .Monks of the West," vol. ii.. Am. ed. 

11 Cul-Dreimhne. where this battle -was fought, is in the barony of Carbury, to the north 
of the town of Sligo. The battle is mentioned in the " Annals of the Four Masters," in 
■which it is stated that "three thousand was the number that fell of Diarmid's people. 
One man only fell on the other side." Vol. i., p. 195. 

12 '' The Monks of the West," vol. ii., Am. ed. 



1 8 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

war, it was afterward venerated as a kind of national, military, and 
religions palladium. Under the name of Cathac, or Figliter, the 
Latin Psalter transcribed by Columbkille, enshrined in a sort of por- 
table altar, became the national relic of the O'Donnell clan. For 
more than a thousand years it was carried with them to battle as 
a 2:)ledge of victory, on the condition of being supported upon the 
breast of a cleric pure from all mortal sin. It has escaped as by 
miracle from the ravages of which Ireland has been the victim, and 
exists still, to the great joy of all learned Irish patriots." ^* 

Columbkille was victorious. But victory is not always peace. 
He soon felt the double reaction of personal remorse and the 
condemnation of many pious souls. In the synod of Teilte,^* held 
in 562, he was accused of having occasioned the shedding of Chris- 
tian blood. Though absent, he was excommunicated. Columb- 
kille, however, was not a man to draw back before his accusers 
and judges. He suddenly presented himself to the synod, which 
had struck without hearing him. In the famous Abbot Brendan 
he found a defender. When the poet-monk made his appearance, 
this Abbot rose, went to meet him, and embraced him. ^^ How 
can you," said some members of the synod, " give the kiss of 
jDcace to an excommunicated man ? " ^^ You would do as I have 
done," answered Brendan, *^and you would never have excommu- 
nicated him, had you seen what I see — a pillar of fire which goes 
before him, and the angels that accompany him. I dare not dis- 
dain a man predestined by God to be the guide of an entire peoj^le 
to eternal life." The synod withdrew the sentence of excommuni- 
cation, but Columbkille was charged to win to Christ by his 
preaching as many pagan souls as the number of Christians who 
had fallen in the battle which he had occasioned. 

The soul of the poet-monk was troubled. The voice of an accus- 
ing conscience touched his heart. He wandered from solitude to 

13 The casket in which this precious MS. is preserved was made towards the 11th cen- 
tury by the head of the clan, Cathbar O'Donnell. Towards the close of the 17th century 
the Cathac came into the possession of Daniel O'Donnell, who raised a regiment in Ire- 
land for James II., and afterwards attained the rank of Brigadier-General in the service 
of France. This wonderful book remained on the Continent until 1802, when it was trans- 
ferred to a nobleman of the name of O'Donnell, who resided at Newport, county of 
iMayo. It is now to be seen in the library of the Eoyal Irish Academy, Dublin, and con- 
sists of fifty-eight pages of vellum manuscript, somewhat damaged at the commence- 
ment. A fac-simile of a portion of one of its pages can be seen in the appendix to 
O'Curry's '• Lectures on the MS. Materials of Irish History "and in the Nun of Ken- 
mare's " Illustrated History of Ireland." 

1* Now Telto An, a little village in the county of Meath. 



•S/. Columbkille, 19 

solitude, from monastery to monastery, seeking masters of Christian 
yirtue, and asking them anxiously what he should do to obtain the 
pardon of God for the murder of so many yictims. At length, he 
found a holy monk called Abban, to whom he poured out the troubles 
of his soul. To Columbkille's enquiries Abban assured him that 
the souls of those killed in the battle enjoyed eternal repose ; and, 
as his confessor, he condemned him to perpetual exile from Ireland. 
^^ What you have commanded," said Columbkille, ^^ shall be done.'' 

ISTow begins the second and grandest period of Columbkille's 
life. Taking a loving leave of his warlike kindred, to whom he was 
intensely attached, he directed his course towards Scotland, to be- 
gin his labors among the heathen Picts. Twelve of his devoted 
disciples accompanied him ; and thus, at the age of forty-two, our 
poet-monk bade a last adieu to his native land. Their bark put in 
at that little isle which he has immortalized, and which took from 
him the name of I-Colm-Kill (the island of Columbkille), now better 
known as lona.^'" On this small sjDot, surrounded by sombre seas, 
overshadowed by the bare and lofty peaks of other islands, and with 
a wild beauty to be seen in the far distance, Columbkille, poet, 
prince, monk, and missionary, founded the fi7'st monastery in Scot- 
land, and began the gigantic labors of a life more than heroic, 
more than apostolic. Over thirteen hundred years ago this became 
the monastic capital and the centre of Christian civilization in J^orth 
Britain. 

Columbkille became transformed into a new man. He whom we 
have seen so passionate, so irritable, so warlike and vindictive, grew, 
little by little, the most gentle, tender, and humble of friends and 
fathers. It was he, the illustrious head of the Caledonian Church, 
who, kneeling before strangers that came to lona, or before the 
monks returning from their work, took off their shoes, washed their 
feet, and, after having w^ashed them, respectfully kissed them. But 
charity was still stronger than humility in that transfigured soul. 
No necessity, spiritual or temporal, found him indifferent. He 
devoted himself to the solace of all infirmities, all misery and pain, 
often weeping over those who did not weep for themselves. 

In the midst of the new community Columbkille inhabited, in- 
stead of a cell, a sort of hut built of planks, and placed upon the 
most elevated spot within the monastic enclosure. Up to the age 

15 It is only three miles long by about two in width. 



20 The P^'ose and Poetry of Ireland, 

of seventy-six he slept there upon the hard floor with a stone for his 
pillow. This hut was at once his study and his oratory. It was 
there that he gave himself up to those prolonged prayers which ex- 
cited the admiration, and almost the alarm, of his disciples. It was 
there that he returned after sharing the out-door labor of his monks 
like the least among them, to consecrate the rest of his time to the 
study of Holy Scripture and the transcription of the sacred text. 

The work of transcription remained until his last day the occu- 
pation of his old age, as it had been the passion of his youth. It 
had such an attraction for him, and seemed to him so essential to a 
knowledge of the truth, that tliree hundred copies of the Holy 
Gospel, written by his own hand, have been ascribed to him.^® 

It was in the same hut that he receiyed with unwearied patience 
and gentle courtesy the hundreds of visitors, of high and low de- 
gree, who flocked to see him. Sometimes he was obliged to complain 
mildly, as of that indiscreet stranger who, desirous of embracing 
him, awkwardly overturned his ink on the border of his robe. 

For over a third of a century, the holy and dauntless Columbkille 
traversed the wild northern regions of Caledonia — regions hitherio 
inaccessible even to the Eoman eagle. At his preaching and miracles 
the flerce and warlike Picts bowed beneath the cross. This renowned 
missionary laid the foundation of Christianity, civilization, and lit- 
erature in Scotland. Out of the many monasteries which he found- 
ed in that land, the remains of fifty-three are to be seen to this day. 
The noble figure of St. Columbkille, prince and monk, towers aloft 
in that distant age. His is by far the grandest name that appears 
in the early annals of G-reat Britain. " 

Skimming Loch Ness with his little skiJff, our Saint soon j)ene« 
trated to the principal fortress of the Pictish king, the site of 
which is still shown upon a rock north of the town of Inverness. 
Brude was the name of the hardy and powerful monarch." At first 
he would not receive the Irish missionary, but 2:ave orders that the 
gates of the fortress should not be opened to the unwelcome A-isi- 
tor. But Columbkille was not alarmed. •'^ He went up to the 
gateway," says his biographer, '^ made the sign of the cross upon 
the two gates, and then knocked with his hand. Immediately the 
bars and bolts drew back, the gates rolled u^ion their hinges and 

^« "Tlie Monks of the West,"' vol. ii. 

^'^ J. O'Kane Murray, '• Lessons in English Literature," book i. 

1^ The Venerable Bede styles him "rege potentissimo." 



SL Cohcmbkille, 21 

were thrown wide open, and Oolumbkille entered like a conqueror. 
The king, though surrounded by his council, was struck with pan- 
ic; he hastened to meet the missionary, addressed to him pacific 
and encouraging words, and from that moment gave him every 
honor." ^^ Thus obstacles vanished at the very glance of the great 
Irish Missionary. 

One day, while laboring at his evangelical work in the principal 
island of the Hebrides,'"' he cried out all at once : ''• My sons, to-day 
you will see an ancient Pictish chief, who has kept faithfully all 
his life the precepts of the natural law, arrive in this island ; he 
comes to be baptized and to die." Immediately after a boat was 
seen to approach the shore with a feeble old man seated in the 
prow. He was the chief of one of the neighboring tribes. Two 
of his companions took him up in their arms, and brought him be- 
fore the missionary, to whose words, as repeated by the interpre- 
ter, he listened attentively. When the discourse was ended, the 
old man asked to be baptized, and soon after breathed his last 
breath, and was buried in the very spot where he had just been 
brought to shore. ^^ 

Oolumbkille accomplished the conversion of the entire Pictish 
nation, and destroyed for ever the authority of the Druids in that 
last refuge of Celtic paganism. Before he closed his glorious ca- 
reer he had sown their forests, their defiles, their inaccessible 
mountains, their savage moors, and scarcely-inhabited islands with 
churches and monasteries. 

In 574, St. Oolumbkille blessed Aidan, consecrating him king of 
the Oaledonian Scots. Ecclesiastical Avriters say that this is the 
first example in history of the solemn consecration of a Christian 
king." 

In Ireland the bards were regarded as an honored class — in fact, 
as oracles of poetry, music, history, and all knowledge. If their 
training was long and rigorous, their privileges were nearly un- 
bounded. At the royal table they occupied the first place after 
that of the king himself." At the time of which we speak they 
were loudly accused of having grossly misused their power and their 

19 Montalembert, vol. ii. St. Adamnan, in Ms Latin life of St. Oolumbkille, gives a detail- 
ed statement of this miraculous incident. 

20 The isle of Skye. 

21 Montalembert, vho, of course, follows Adamnan. 

22 Martene, " De Solemni Regum Benedictione," quoted by Montalembert. 

23 O'Curry , ' Lectures on the MS. Materials of Irish History." 



2 2 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

privileges. Indeed, the enmities raised against them had come to 
such a point that the chief monarch of Ireland felt himself suffi- 
ciently strong to propose to the assembly of Drumceitt the entire 
su2:)pression, and even banishment, of the bards. St. Columbkille, 
however, saved them by his wonderful influence. Their gratitude 
was boundless, and for centuries after the bards of Erinn sang the 
praises of the great missionary, who himself was born a poet, lived 
a poet, and died a poet. 

The soul of St. Columbkille, amid all his labors in Scotland, was 
swayed by one master sentiment — regret for his long-lost Erinn. His 
passionate love for his country displayed itself to his last breath. 
In his songs he pours forth his sorrowful afiection. " My sad heart 
ever bleeds," he says. " There is a gray eye which ever turns to 
Erinn; but never in this life shall it see Erinn, nor her sons, nor 
her daughters. I look over the sea, and great tears are in my 
eye ! " 

The most severe penance which he could imagine for the most 
guilty sinners who came to confess to him was to impose upon them 
the same fate which he had voluntarily inflicted upon himself — 
never to set foot again upon Irish soil. 

To monks about returning to Ireland he would say : " You go 
back to the country that you love." 

" This melancholy patriotism," says Montalembert, *' never faded 
out of his heart." His regret for his lost Ireland was (as we have 
said) life-long. Once he bade a monk to sit upon the shore of 
lona, and watch for a poor, exhausted, weather-beaten stork from 
the north of Ireland, which would fall at his feet. "Take her up 
with pity," added the Saint, "'feed her, and watch her for three 
days. When she is refreshed she will no longer wish to prolong 
her exile among us — she will fly to sweet Ireland, her dear country 
where she was born. I bid thee care for her thus, because she 
comes from the land where I, too, was born." Everything happen- 
ed as he said. In three days the stork rose from the ground in her 
host's presence, and directed her flight towards Ireland. 

To all his relations he was most tenderly attached. 

One day at lona, he suddenly stopped short while reading, and 
said with a smile to his monks : "I must now go and j)ray for a 
poor little woman who is in the pains of child-birth, and who 
suffers like a true daughter of Eve. She is down yonder in 
Ireland, and reckons upon my prayers ; for she is my kinswoman. 



S^. ColiLTfibkille, 23 

and of my mother's family.*' Upon this the great priest hastened 
to the church, and, when his prayer was ended, returned to his 
brethren, saying : '^ She is delivered. The Lord Jesus, who deigned 
to be born of a woman, has come to her aid ; this time she will not 
die.'' '^ 

Towards his last days a celestial light was occasionally seen to 
surround him as a garment. And, once as he prayed, his face 
was first lit up with beatific joy, which finally gave expression to 
a profound sadness. Two of his monks saw this singular change 
of countenance. Throwing themselyes at the aged Abbot's feet, 
they im^^lored him, with tears in their eyes, to tell them what he 
had learned in his prayer. 

'^Dear children," said he, '^ I do not wish to afflict you. . . . 
But it is thirty years to-day since I began my pilgrimage in 
Caledonia. I have long ^^rayed to God to let my exile end with 
this thirtieth year, and to call me to the heavenly country. When 
you saw me so joyous, it was because I could already see the angels 
who came to seek my soul. But all at once they stopped short 
down there upon that rock at the farthest limits of the sea which 
surrounds our island, as if they would approach to take me and 
could not. And, in truth, they could not, because the Lord had 
paid less regard to my ardent prayer than to that of the many 
churches which have prayed for me, and which have obtained, 
against my will, that I should still dwell in this body for four years. 
This is the reason of my sadness. But in four years I shall die 
without being sick. In four years, I know it and see it, they will 
come back, these holy angels, and I shall take my flight with them 
towards the Lord." " 

Wonderful man ! His last day on earth came. It was on a 
Saturday in sunny June. Drawn in a car by oxen, the aged 
patriarch passed through the fields near the monastery, and blessed 
his monks at their labor. Arising in his rustic chariot, he then 
gave his solemn benediction to the whole island — a benediction 
which, according to local tradition, was like that of St. Patrick in 
Ireland, and drove from that day all vipers and venomous creatures 
out of lona. ^^ He then went to the granary of the monastery, and 
gave it his blessing, remarking to his faithful attendant, Diarmid : 

"*Montalembert,who here literally follows St. Adamnan. 
2s Montalembert, vol. ii. ; Adamnan, iii 23. 
26 Ibid. 



24 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

'' This very night I shall enter into the path of my fathers. Thou 
weepest, dear Diarmid, but console thyself. It is my Lord Jesus 
who deigns to invite me to rejoin him. It is he who has revealed 
to me that my summons will come to-night." He then left the 
store-house, and on the way to the monastery was met by a good and 
ancient servant, the old white horse, which came and put his head 
upon his master's shoulder, as if to take leave of him. '^ The eyes 
of the old horse," remarks the biographer of our Saint, "had an 
expression so pathetic that they seemed to be bathed in tears." 
Caressing the faithful brute, he gave him a last blessing.^'' He now 
entered his cell and began to work for the last time. It was at 
his dearly-loved employment — transcribing the Psalter. When the 
sublime old man came to a certain verse in the thirty-third Psalm, 
he said: "I must stop here. Baithen will write the rest." ^® 
After a time spent in prayer he entrusted his only companion with 
a last message for the community, advising them, like the apostle 
of old, "to love one another." 

As soon as the midnight bell had rung for the matins of the 
Sunday festival, the noble old saint and poet rose and knelt down 
before the altar. Diarmid followed him, but, as the church was 
not yet lighted, he could only find him by groping and crying in a 
plaintive voice: "Where art thou, my father?" He found Oo- 
lumbkille lying before the altar, and, placing himself at his side, 
raised the aged Abbot's venerable head upon his knees. The 
whole community soon arrived with lights, and wept as one man at 
the sight of their dying chief and father. Once more Columbkille 
ojoened his eyes, and turned them to his children on each side with 
a look full of serene and radiant joy. Then with the aid of Diar- 
mid he raised, as best he could, his right hand to bless them all. 
His hand dropped, the last sigh came from his lips, and his face 
remained calm and sweet like that of a man who in his sleep had 
seen a vision of heaven. ^^ And thus died, or rather passed aw^ay, on 
the 9th of June, in the year 597, in his seventy-sixth year, the 
glorious St. Columbkille, apostle of Caledonia, Irish prince, poet, 

27 Adamnan, iii. 23. 

2s Baithen became his successor. 

29 MoQtalembert, vol. ii. p. 106, Am. ed. ; Adamnan, iii. 23. The long chapter of Adam, 
nan -which describes the last scenes of the great Abbot's life "is," writes Rey. Dr. 
Reeves, " as touchingly beautiful a narrative as is to be met with in the whole range of 
ancient biography " (Adamnan's '' Life of St. Columbkille,"' p. 78, note). It is worthy of 
remark that St. Augustine landed at Kent England, the very year that St. ( olumbkille 
died. 



SL Cohcmbkille, 25 

monk, and missionary — a man whose beautiful name and shining 
deeds will live for ever and for ever I 

After Oisin, " says Montalembert, Columbkille opens the series of 
two hundred Irish 2^oets whose memories and names^ in default of 
their Avorks, have remained dear to Ireland. He wi'ote verses not 
only in Latin, but also, and more frequently, in Irish. But three, 
however, of his Latin poems survive ; and only two centui'ies ago 
eleven of his Irish j)oems were still in existence." Colgan gives 
the title and quotes the first verse of each of those Irish poems, 
the most authentic of which is the one dedicated to the glory of St. 
Bridget. " The six poetical pieces which we reproduce in this vol- 
ume are all attributed to the pen of the Saint, and the most rigid 
criticism is forced to accept them as the genuine literary remains of 
a venerable past. " 

As to the so-called '^prophecies" of St. Columbkille, it may be 
well to remark that the best Catholic critics and the most profound 
Irish scholars regard them as impositions and silly fictions. The 
learned and pious O'Curry, in one of his matchless lectures, fully 
discusses this matter." In concluding he says : '^ It is remarkable 
that no reference to any of these long, circumstantially-defined 
prophecies can be found in any of the many ancient copies of the 
Saint's life which have come down to us. ... I feel it to be a 
duty I owe to my country, as well as to my creed as a Catholic, to 
express thus in public the disgust which I feel with every right- 

30 Oisin (and not Ossian) is the true form of the word. It is singular that so many 
■writers on English literature copy each other's blunders in spelling the name of this 
ancient Irish poet. See Prof. OVurry's Lectures. 

31 " The Monks of the West," vol. ii. 

32 " Trias Thaumaturgas," p. 472. 

33 Speaking of the writings of St. Columbkille that yet esdst, Rev. Dr. Reeves says : 
" Three Latin hymns of considerable beauty are attributed to him, and in the aucient 
Liber Hymnorum^ where they are preserved, each is accompanied by a preface describing 
the occasion on which it was written. His alleged Irish compositions are also poems. 
There are in print his ' Farewell to Aran,' a poem of twenty-two stanzas ; another 
poem of seventeen stanzas which is supposed to have been written on the occasion of 
his flight from King Diarmid. Besides these, there is a collection of some fifteen poems 
bearing his name in one of the O'Clery MSS., preserved in the Burgundian library at 
Brussels. But much the largest collection is contained in an oblong MS. of the Bod- 
leian Library at Oxford, Laud 616, which embraces everything in the shape of poem or 
fragment that could be called Columbkille "s, which industry was able to scrape together 
at the middle of the sixteenth century.'" — "Life of St. Columbkille " by St. Adamnan, 
appendix to the preface, pp. 7S-9. 

The learned Count de Montalembert, who doubtless examined the Bodleian collection 
cf St. Columbkille"s poems, says it '■ contains thirty-kix Irish poems." 
3* See " Lectures on the M i. Materials of Ancient Irish Histoi y, " lecture xix. 



26 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland. 

minded Irishman in witnessing the dishonest exertions of certain 
parties of late years ^° in attempting, by various publications, to 
fasten these disgraceful forgeries on the credulity of honest and 
sincere Catholics as the undoubtedly inspired revelations of the 
ancient saints of Erinn. . . . Our 'primitive saints never did, 
according to any reliable autliority, pretend to foretell political 
events of remote occurrence.'^ 

In personal appearance St. Columbkille was most attractive and 
dignified. His lofty figure and pure, manly, beautiful counte- 
nance impressed every beholder. We have endeavored to give a 
few feeble glimpses at his grandly holy and heroic career. He was, 
above all others, the dear Irish saint, ardent, eloquent, impulsive, 
noble, and generous to a fault. Next to God, he loved his friends 
and his country with a love passionate and deathless. In a confus- 
ed age and unknown region he displayed all that is greatest and 
purest, and, it must be added, most easily forgotten in human 
genius — the gift of ruling souls by ruling himself. 

The influence of St. Columbkille, as of all men really superior to 
their fellows, and especially of the saints, far from ceasing with his 
life, grew greater and greater after his death. The visions and 
miracles which went to prove his sanctity would fill a volume. As 
long as his body remained in his island grave, lona continued to be 
the most venerated sanctuary of the Celts. Seventy kings were 
buried at his feet,^'' and from his great monastery, on that blessed 
spot, religion, learning, and civilization flashed their genial rays 
over the neighboring kingdoms. 

In the eighteenth century the celebrated Dr. Johnson visited the 
sad and sombre ruins of historic lona — that grand lona whose 
famous sanctuary had been plundered by j)agan Danes," and fin- 

35 We have before us a pretentious version of these so-called " Prophecies," edited by 
one Nicholas O'Kearney, and issued at Dublin in 1855. Yet, accordingto Rev. Dr. Reeves, 
"Eire this night," the sixth and last of St. Columbkille 's "prophecies " given in that 
singular volume, " is not as eld as the Ecclesiastical Titles Bill " ! 

31^ Montalembert.— The recollection of this royal cemetery has been consecrated by 
Shakspere in his great tragedy of " Macbeth " : 

" RossE. Where is Duncan buried ? 
Macdutf. Carried to Colmes-kill, 
The sacred store-house of his predecessors, 
And guardian of their bones.' 
^'' The Danes first sacked this monastery in 801. This sad event is thus recorded in the 
"Annals of the Four Masters " (vol. i. p. 411) : "The age of Christ 801. m-Coluim- ille 
[lona] was plundered by foreigners, and great numbers of the laity and clergy were killed 
by them— namely, sixty-eight." For safety, toward the close of the same century, the 
sacred remains of St. Columbkille were transferred to Ireland. 



Si. Coltcnibkille. 



27 



ally profaned and destroyed by the brutal and more than pagan 
hands of Scotch fanatics and English ruffians. 

••'We are now treading.'*' wi'ote the enthusiastic Johnson^ "that 
illustrious island which was once the luminary of the Caledonian 
regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the 
benefits of knowledge and the blessings of religion. To abstract 
the mind from all local emotion would be impossible if it were 
endeavored, and would be foohsh if it were possible. Whatever 
"^-ithdrawg us from the power of our senses, whatever makes the 
past, the distant, or the future predominate over the present, advan- 
ces us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me and fi'om 
my friends be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indiffer- 
ent and unmoved over any gi'ound which has been dignified by wis- 
dom, bravery, or virtue. That man is little to be envied whose 
patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or 
whose piety w^ould not grow warmer among the ruins of lona.'' '^ 



THE EECOKD OF COLUMBKILLE'S PRIXCIPAL CHURCHES.^' 

Delightful to be on Benn-Edar " 
Before going o'er the white sea ; 
The dashing of the waves against its face. 
The bareness of its shores and its border. 

Delightful to be on Benn-Edar, 

After coming o'er the white-bosomed sea. 

To row one's little coracle, 

Ohone I on the swift-waved shore. 

How rapid the speed of my coracle ; 
And its stern turned upon Derry ; 
I gi'ieved at my errand o'er the noble sea, 
Travelling to Alba of the ravens. 

My foot in my sweet little coracle. 
My sad heart still bleeding; 

35 "Tour to the Hebrides." 

3^ Dr. Reeves is of opinion that this poem belongs to a later period than St. Columb- 
kille's day, but we do not see anv good reason to think that it is. 
■**' The highest elevation of the peninsula of Howth. 



28 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

Weak is the man that cannot lead ; 
Totally blind are all the ignorant. 

There is a gray eye 

That looks back upon Erinn ; 

It shall not see during life 

The men of Erinn nor their wives. 

My vision o'er the brine I stretch 
From the ample oaken planks ; 
Sage is the tear of my soft gray eye 
When I look back upon Erinn. 

Upon Erinn my attention is fixed ; 
Upon Loch Levin, *^ upon Line ^^ ; 
Upon the lands the Ultouians own ; 
Upon smooth Munster — upon Meath. 

Numerous in the East " are tall champions, 
Many the diseases and distempers there. 
Many they with scanty clothes. 
Many the hard and jealous hearts. 

Plentiful in the AVest ** the apple fruit ; 
Many the kings and princes ; 
Plentiful its luxuriant sloes, 
Plentiful its noble acorn-bearing oaks. 

Melodious her clerics, melodious her birds. 
Gentle her youths, wise her seniors. 
Illustrious her men, noble to behold. 
Illustrious her Avomen for fond espousal. 

It is in the West sweet Brendan is. 
And Colum, son of Crimthann, 
And in the West fair Baithin shall be, 
And in the West shall Adamnan be. 

Cany my enquiries after that 
Unto Comgall of eternal life ; 



<i Now Lough Lene, Westmeath. 

*' Now known as Moylinny, near the town of Antrim. 

*3 East— that is, Scotland. <* West— that is, Ireland. 



'-' St. Columbkille. 29 

Carry my enquiries after that 

To the bold king of fair Emania.** 

Carry with thee, thou noble youth, 
My blessing and my benediction ; 
One-half upon Erinn seven-fold. 
And half on Alba at the same time. 

Carry my benediction over the sea 
To the nobles of Island of the Gaedhil; 
Let them not credit Molaisi's words, 
Nor his threatened persecution. 

Were it not for Molaisi's words 
At the cross of Ath-Imlaisi, 
I should not now permit 
Disease or distemper in Ireland. 

Take my blessing with thee to the West ; 
Broken is my heart in my breast : 
Should sudden death overtake me, 
It is for my great love of the Gaedhil. 

Gaedhil ! G-aedhil, beloved name ! 
My only desire i« to invoke it ; 
Beloved is Cuimin of fair hair ; 
Beloved are Cainnech and Comgall. 

Were the tribute of Alba mine, 
From its centre to its border, 
I would prefer the sight of one house 
In the middle of fair Derry." 

The reason I love Derry is 

For its quietness, for its purity ; 
And for its crowds of white angels 
From the one end to the other. 

The reason why I love Derry is 
For its quietness, for its purity ; 
Crowded full of heaven's angels, 
Is every leaf of the oaks of Derry. 

■*s Emania, the ancient seat of royalty in Ulster. ^^ Derry, now Londonderry. 



30 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

My Deny, my little oak-gi'oye, 
My chvelliiig and my little cell ; 
eternal God in heaven above. 
Woe be to him who violates it ! 

Beloved are Durrow*^ and Deny ; 
Beloved is Eaj^hoe in pnrity : 
Beloved Dnimhome of rich frnits ; 
Beloved are Swords and Kelts. 

Beloved is my heart also in the West, 
Drnmcliff, at Cnlcinne's strand : 
To behold the fair Loch Feval/* ' 
The form of its shores is delightful. 

Delightful is that, and delightful 
The salt main in which the sea-gulls cry 
On my coming from Derry afar ; 
It is quiet and it is delightful. 

DeHghtful. 



THE DIALOGUE OF ST. COLUMBKILLE A^'D CORMAC/^ 

[This dialogue took place, it is said, in lona, after Cormac's escape from the 
Coire Brecain, and after searching the boundless ocean, until he reached the cold 
regions of the North ] 

COLUMBKILLE FIKST SPOKE. 

Thou art welcome, comely Cormac, 

From over the all-teeming sea. 

What sent thee forth ? Where hast thou been, 

Since the time we were on the same path ? 

Two 3*ears and a month to this night 

Is the time thou hast been wandering from port to port. 

From wave to wave ; resolute the energy 

To traverse the wide ocean ! 

4" Durrow was in King's County. ""^ Now Lough Foyle. 

-»» The titles of this and the following poem are given in Colgan's list of bt. Columb- 
kille's reputed writings. The beautiftd English rendering of both is from the gifted 
pen of the late lamented Professor Eugene O'Curry. The original Irish with the Eng- 
lish translation can be found in bt. Adamnan's ''Life of St Colvimbkille,'' Appendix, 
pp. 264, etc., ed. by Rev. Dr. Reeves. Cormac was a monk, and one of the dear compa- 
nions of St. Columbkille's early years. 



6V. CGlumbkille, 31 

Since the sea hatli sent tliee hither, 

Thou shalt have friend shij) and counsel : 

Were it not for Christ's sake, Lord of the fair world, 

Thou hast merited satire and reproach. 

CoKMAC. Let there be no reproach now, 

descendant of Niall, ^^ for we are a noble race : 
The sun shines in the west as in the east : 

A righteous guest is entitled to reception. 

CoLUMBKiLLE. Tliou art welcome, since thou hast come 
From the waves of the mighty sea : 
Thou hast for ever abandoned thy home. 
Thou descendant of the illustrious Liathan ? 

CoRMAC. Columbkille, descendant of Conn/^ 
Erinn, on which I have turned my back, 

1 shall not touch in the west or east 

Any more than the monster-full pit of hell. 

OoLUMKiLLE. Though thou travel the world over. 
East, west, south, ebb, flood. 
Though noble son of high-born Dima, 
It is in Durrow thy resurrection shall be. 

CORMAC. Alas ! for my labor, Son of God, 
Thou Father of all mercies. 
And all my work beyond the full brine. 
If my last end shall be in Erinn ! 

Columbkille. I pledge thee my unerring word, 
Which it is not possible to impugn : 
Death is better in reproachless Erinn 
Than perpetual life in Alba. 

CoRMAC. If it is better to be in noble Erinn 
Than in inviolate Alba, 
I shall be in Alba by turns. 
And go thou into Erinn. 

*o Niall of the Nine Hostages. si Conn of the Hundred Battles. 



32 The Prose and Poetry of Irclaiid. 

CoLUMBKiLLE. That wliich thou sayest is not meet, 
Cormac of spotless purity ; 
Turn on thy right, go to thy home. 
Unto Laisren, son of Peradhach. 

Cormac. I and Laisren of untarnished lustre, 
Bad are our joined neighbors ; 
Eile and Delbhna will 3'ield us gifts, 
Ui Failghe, and Cenel Fiachach. 

CoLUMBKiLLE. My cousins are by thee on the north. 
The Clann Colman of reddened swords ; 
They will not abandon me on any account, 
Nor will they permit outrage on me. 

CoEMAC. Wert thou there thyself, 
No stranger should insult thee ; 
No king, nor apparent king-making, 
Nor bond, nor free, nor secret. 

CoLUMBKiLLE. Comiac of powerful strength, 
Woe to him who shall do violence to thee ; 
Evil shall be the reward he shall receive. 
Shortness of life, and hell ; 
Erom high exalted Erinn shall he be cut off ; 
Nor shall he be left roof or habitation. 

Cormac. Columbkille of a hundred graces, 

For thou art a true projDhet, thou art a true poet. 

Thou art a learned scribe, happy, perfect. 

And a devout, accomplished priest ; 

Thou art a king's son of reddened valor, 

Thou art a virgin, thou art a pilgrim ; 

We shall abide in the west, if thou desire it : 

Christ will unfold His mysterious intentions. 

COLUMBKILLE. Comiac, beautiful is thy church. 
With its books and learning ; 
A devout city with a hundred crosses, 
Without blemish, without transgression ; 



S^, Cohtmbkille, 33 



A holy dwelling confirmed by my verse, 
The green of Aedh, son of Brennan, 
The Oak-jDlain of far-famed Ros- Grenaha : " 
The night u]Don which her pilgrims collect. 
The number of her wise — a fact wide spread- 
Is unknown to any but the only God. 



WHEN CORMAC CAME TO ST. COLUMBKILLE FROM HIS OWN 

COUNTRY. ^^ 

Cormac, offspring of Liathan, of aspect bright. 
The chamj)ion of Heaven and of earth. 
Came out of his Southern, warm country 
Upon a visit, upon a pilgrimage. 

Two oxen of noble apjoearance 
Conveyed the devout cleric 
From the South, from the broad, rapid Lee, 
To Cormac's cross at Caindruim. 

Druim-Cain" was the first name of the height 
^Where Dairmagh" stands, according to history ; 
Dermagh is its name now ; 
The country of Covell, offspring of Fergus. 

When the blooming sweet man had arrived 
At Cormac's cross at the church, 
Then rang the soft-toned bell 
Here at Catamael's city. 

That pleasant divine then celebrated service, 
Cormac, son of the noble-faced Dima ; 
And to meet him came together 
Our devout, steadfast congregation. 

Thou art welcome here, thy face is pleasant, 
Cormac, since thou art devout: 

•' An ancient name of Burrow. 

'3 It is supposed the scene of the dialogue was at Durrow. 

«< The old name of Ushnagh Hill, Westmeath. 

*' Dairmagh was the ancient name of Durrow. 



34 1^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland, . 

Thy coming hither with speed 
Was a long time since foretold. 

Abide here, for thou art a perfect divine, 
Cormac, of character unbroken, 
That thou mayest be the proper guardian. 
That shall be in my devout city. 

CoEMAC. How can I be here, said he. 
Thou noble son of Fedhlim, 
Among the powerful northern tribes. 
In this border territory, Colum ? 

CoLUMBKiLLE. Ecstrain all subordinates, all rash ones. 
All chieftains who require it; 
And I will restrain all actual kings. 
All those present and at a distance. 

Let us therefore form our union. 
As Christ has ordained in the flesh ; 
Not to be dissolved till the judgment day, 
By us, Cormac, offspring of Liathan, 

Bind upon the thumbs of my hands, 

Cormac of many dignities, 

The coils of our noble union. 

As long as beautiful Dairmagh shall last. 

Perversely hast thou attacked me, Momonian," 

Cormac of memorable sense * 

Wolves shall eat thy body. 

For this deed, without any mercy. 

CoEMAC. Though many be the joints of my body, 
Said Cormac the Just, from Core's Cashel, 
There shall be a church for every one of them, 
And they shall all be yours, 
fair-famed Colum. 

CoLUMBKiLLE. I well know what will be the result 
Of cutting me, of mutilating me : 
Mine honor shall rest with my thumb in my church, 

56 On account of his belonging to a Munster clan. 



SL Colicmbkille. 35 

As long as pointed Erinn shall exist. 
Procure for me tribute from tny race, 
thou descendant of Oilill Oluni; 
That I may not "s-isit vengeance 
On the virtuous posterity of Liathan. 

CoEMAC. Thou shalt receive a screhall from every city. '^ 



REMAINS OF AX AXCIEXT IRISH POEM SUPPOSED TO BE COM- 
POSED BY THE SAIXT OX THE OCCASIOX OF HIS DEPARTURE 
TO DURROW. 

[The following verses refer to the early administration of that monastery.] 

Beloved '* the excellent seven. 

Whom Christ has chosen to his kingdom ; 

To whom I leave for their purity 

The constant care of this my church. 

Three of whom are here at this side, 
Cormac, son of Dima, and ^Engus. 
And Collan of pure heart. 
Who has joined himself to them. 

Libren, Senan, comely Conrache, 
The son of Ua Chien, and his brother. 
Are the four besides the others 
Who shall arrive at this place. 

They are the seven pillars. 
And they are the seven chiefs. 
Whom God has surely commanded 
To dwell in the same abode. 



5" Here the original MS. seems defective. 

59 The original containing these stanzas can be found in the Brussels MS. ; also in th» 
Bodleian Library, Oxford. 



36 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

THE SONG OF TRUST. 

Alone am I on the mountain ; 
royal Sun, prosper my path. 
And then I shall have nothing to fear. 
Were I guarded by six thousand. 
Though they might defend my skin. 
When the hour of death is fixed. 
Were I guarded by six thousand. 
In no fortress could I be safe. 

Even in a church the wicked are slain. 
Even in an isle amidst a lake ; 
But God's elect are safe 
Even in the front of battle. 
IS.0 man can kill me before my day. 
Even had we closed in combat ; 
And no man can save my life 
When the hour of death has come. 

My life ! 

As God j)leases let it be ; 

Naught can be taken from it, 

Naught can be added to it : 

The lot which God has given 

Ere a man dies must be lived out. . 

He who seeks more, were he a prince. 

Shall not a mite obtain. 

A guard ! 

A guard may guide him on his way, 

But can they, can they guard 

Against the touch of death ? 

Forget thy poverty awhile ; 

Let us think of the world's hospitality 

The Son of Mary will prosper thee. 

And every guest shall have his share. 

Many a time 

What is spent returns to the bounteous hand, 

And that which is kept back 

Not the less has passed away. 



S^. Columbkille, 37 

living God ! 

Alas for him who evil works ! 

That which he thinks not of comes to him, 

That which he hopes vanishes ont of his hand. 

There is no Sreod '"^ that can tell our fate, 

Nor bird upon the branch, 

Nor trnnk of gnarled oak. 

Better is He in whom we trust. 

The King who has made us all. 

Who will not leave me to-night without refuge. 

1 adore not the voice of birds, 

Nor chance, nor the love of a son or a wife. 
My Druid is Christ, the Son of Grod, 
The Son of Mary, the Great Abbot, 
The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. 
My lands are with the King of Ejngs, 
My Order at Kells and at Moone.^" 



THE PRAISE OF ST. BRIDGET." 

Bridget, the good and the virgin, 
Bridget, our torch and our sun, 
Bridget, radiant and unseen. 
May she lead us to the eternal kingdom ! 

May Bridget defend us 
Against all the troops of hell 
And all the adversities of life ; 
May she beat them down before us. 

All the ill movements of the flesh. 

This pure virgin whom we love, \ 

59 An unknown Druidical term. 

60 i' Thus sang Columbkille on his lonely journey ; and this song will protect him who 

repeats it while he travels "' (Preface to the Song of Trust). \ 

«i According to Colgan, St. Bridget died four years after the birth of St. Columbkille. i 

" The Annals of the Four Masters'' give a.d. 525 as the date of this holy virgin's death. 
See vol. i., p. 171. This, as the reader will perceive, is the date also given by Colgan, who, 
most likely, took the "'Annals" as his authority. St Bridget was the 31ary of Erinn — 
the renowned foundress of female religious life in the Isle of Saints. 



38 The Prose and Poetry of Irela^id, 

Worthy of honor without end. 
May she extinguish in us. 

Yes, she shall always be om- safeguard. 

Dear saint of Lagenia : ^^ 

After Patrick she comes first. 

The pillar of the land. 

Glorious among all glories, 

Queen among all queens. 

When old age comes upon us, 
May she be to us as the shirt of hair ; 
May she fill us with her gi*ace. 
May Bridget protect us. " 

•' The Latin name of Leinster. «3 Colgan. '' Trias Thaumaturgus," p. 606, 



MICHAEL aCLERY, 0,S,F., 

CHIEF OF THE FOUR MASTERS. 



"We regard the 'Annals of the Four Masters' as the largest collection of na- 
tional, civil, military, and family history ever brought together in this, or 
perhaps any other, country." — Professor Eugkne O'Curry. 

MICHAEL O'OLERY, the greatest of Irish annalists, was born 
at Kilbarron, near Ballyshannon, county of Donegal, about 
the year 1575.^ He was descended — as were also the other two annal- 
ists of the same name — from G-uaire Aidhne, surnamed the Hospita- 
ble, a king of Connaught who reigned in the seventh century. The 
ancient family seat was in the county of Galway; but the O'Clerys 
were driven thence by the De Burgos, shortly after the English 
invasion. 

Towards the close of the fourteenth century, Cormac MacDermot 
O'Clery, a man profoundly read in canon and civil law, went to live 
in Tirconnell, in the North of Ireland. As professor of both laws, 
he was employed in the monastery of Assaroe, near Ballyshannon, 
county of Donegal. Cormac married the daughter of the ollav, or 
chief professor of history, in Tirconnell, and was the father of a race 
of eminent writers and historians. Three of the Four Masters were 
his lineal descendants.^ 

Michael, the subject of our sketch, was the fourth son of Donough 
O'Clery, and at his baptism was named Teige ; but afterwards, on 
entering religion, according to the usual custom in such cases, he 
changed his name, taking that of MichaeL Unhappily, we know 
little of O'Clery's early life. It appears that he received the rudi- 
ments of his education at his birthplace, while his classical and 
Irish studies were finished in the South of Ireland under a distin- 

^ This is the date given by Dr. O'Donovan in his Introductory Remarks to the ''An- 
nals of the Four Masters." Prof. O'Curry says "about the year 1580," and the Nun 
of Kenmare follows him. 

- Introductory Remarks to the '' Annals of the Four Masters." 

39 



40 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

guislied Irish scholar named MacEgan. As he remarks himself, he 
was '^ a chronicler by descent and education." ^ 

We cannot fix the date of O'Clery's entrance into the Order of St. 
Francis.* He did not aspire to the dignity of the priesthood, but 
preferred to remain a simple lay brother, continuing to pursue the 
hereditary profession of antiquarian, which he had f olloY\^ed in secu- 
lar life. ^ His pursuits doubtless received the full sanction and appro- 
bation of his suj)eriors ; for, soon after joining his Order at Louvain, 
he was sent to Ireland by Father Hugh Ward, Guardian of the Irish 
Convent. In 1627, we find him engaged in visiting the various 
Franciscan monasteries in Ireland, as well as other ecclesiastical 
and lay repositories of ancient Irish manuscripts, and laboriously 
transcribing from them with his own most accurate hand all that 
they contained of the history of the Catholic Church in Ireland 
and the lives of the Irish saints, as well as important tracts relating 
to the civil history of the country.® 

" Brother Michael O'Clery, who was eminently qualified for this 
task," writes Dr. O'Donovan, ^^ pursued his enquiry for about fif- 
teen years, during which period he visited the most distinguished 
scholars and antiquarians then living, and transcribed from ancient 
MSS. many lives of saints, several genealogies, martyrologies, and 
other monuments, all of which he transmitted to Ward, who, how- 
ever, did not live to avail himself of them to any great extent, for 
he died soon after the receipt of them, on the 8th of N"ovember, 
1635 ; but they proved of great use to the Eev. John Colgan,' 
jubilate lecturer on theology at Louvain, who took up the same 
subject after the death of Ward."® 

O'Clery, during his stay in Ireland, compiled the following works : 

1. "The Reim Rioghraidhe," which contains a catalogue of the 
kings of Ireland, the genealogies of the Irish saints, and the Irish 
Calendar of Saints' Days. "There is a copy of this work," writes 

3 Dedication to his " Reim Rioghraidhe," or " The Succession of the Kings of Ireland. * 

4 In the dedication to one of his books he informs us that he belonged to the Obser-* 
vatine branch of that great religious body, 

s Dr. O'Donovan states distinctly that O'Clery '-'•did not enter holy orders^'''' jet some 
writers make the mistake of calling him " Father " O'Clery. 

® Prof. Curry, " Lectures on the MS. Materials of Ancient Irish History," lect. vii. 

'' Colgan Avas also a Franciscan. 

" Introductory remarks to the "Annals of the Four Masters," xxiii. The learned 
Father John Colga-n also mentions tho foregoing facts in the preface to his " Acta Sanc- 
torum Hibernise." He says that Michael O'Clery was esteemed the most profound Irish 
antiquarian of his day. 



Michael GClery, O.S.F, 41 

Dr. O'DonoYan, '^ in the library of the Royal Irish Academy/ and 
the autograph original is preserved in the Burgundian Library at 
Brussels. '' 

2. ^"The Leabhar Gabhala," or "Book of Conquests." Dr. 
O'Donovan states that there is a beautiful manuscript copy of this 
work in the library of the Eoyal Irish Academy, Dublin. 

It was during this period that the holy and indefatigable Michael 
O'Clery conceived and executed his greatest work — '^^ The Annals 
of the Four Masters. " The assistance of a ^Datron was necessary to 
carry out this vast literary undertaking, and such he found in Fer- 
ral O'Gara, a generous, noble-minded chieftain in the county of 
Sligo. To him Brother O'Clery dedicated the "Annals." The fol- 
lowing is a translation of the simple and beautiful dedication : 

" I beseech God to bestow every happiness that may conduce to 
the welfare of his body and soul upon Ferral O'Gara, Lord of jMagh 
O'Gara, one of the two knights of Parliament who were elected from 
the county of Sligo to Dublin, this year of the age of Christ 1634. 

"It is a thing general and plain throughout the whole world, in 
every place where honor or nobility has prevailed in each successive 
period, that nothing is more glorious, more respectable, or more 
honorable than to bring to light the knowledge of the antiquity of 
ancient authors, and a knowledge of the chieftains and nobles that 
existed in former times, in order that each successive generation 
might know how their ancestors spent their time and their lives, 
how long they lived in succession in the lordship of their countries, 
in dignity or in honor, and what sort of death they met. 

"I, Michael O'Clery," a poor friar of the Order of St. Francis, 
(after having been for ten years transcribing every old material 
which I found concerning the saints of Ireland, observing obedience 
successively to each provincial that was in Ireland), have come 
before you, noble Ferral O'Gara ! I have calculated on your 
honor that it seemed to j^ou a cause of pity, grief, and sorrow (for 
the glory of God and the honor of Ireland) how much the race of 
Gaedhil, the son of ^iul, have passed under a cloud and darkness, 
without a knowledge or record of the death of saint or virgin, arch- 
bishop, bishop, abbot, or other dignitary of the Church, of king 
or of prince, of lord or of chieftain, or of the synchronism or con- 
nection of the one with the other. I explained to you that I 
thought I could get the assistance of the chroniclers for whom I 

9 At Dublin. i" In Irish, O'Clerigh. 



4- The Prose ami Poetry of Irela?id, 

had the most esteem in Tn*iting a book of annals in which these 
matters might be put on record : and that should the writing of 
them be neglected at present, they would not again be found to be 
jDut on record or commemorated, even to the end of the world. 
There were collected by me all the best and most copious books of 
annals that I could find throughout Ireland (though it was difficult 
for me to collect them to one place) to write this book in vour 
name and to your honor; for it was you that gave the reward of 
their labor to the chroniclers by whom it was written, and it was 
the friars of the convent of Donegal that supplied them with food 
and attendance in like manner. For every good that will result 
fi'om this book in giving light to all in general, it is to you that 
thanks should be given : and there should exist no wonder or sur- 
prise, jealousy or envy, at any good that you do, for you ai'e of the 
race of Heber, son of Milesius, fi'om whom descended thirty of the 
kings of Ireland and sixty-one saints.*^ 

•'On the 22d day of the month of January, a.d. 1632, this book'* 
was commenced in the convent of Donegal, and it was finished in 
the same convent on the 10th day of August, 1636, the eleventh 
year of the reign of our King Charles over England, France, Alba, 
and over Eire. 

'• Your affectionate friend, 

•'•'Beothee Michael O'Cleey."" 

'' What a simple, unostentatious address and dedication to so im- 
portant a work I *' exclaims Professor O'Ctirry. We gladly join in 
the sentiment of the great Irish critic. 

O'Clery, having collected his materials, and having found a 
patron willing to identify liimself with the undeitaking and to 
defray its expenses, betook himself to the quiet solitude of the 
monastery of Donegal, then presided over by his brother. Father 
Bernardine O'Clery, O.S.F. Here he arranged his collection of 
ancient Irish books,'"* and gathered about him such assistants as he 

11 Here "we omit a portion of the dedication, and especiallv the lengthy pedigree of 
O'Gara. 

1- The •• Annals of the Four Masters." 

-'^ The above translation, with a few slight changes, is that given by Prof. O'Curry in his 
'•Lectures on the MS. Materials of Irish History." The original in Irish is given in the 
appendix: to the same work. This dedication, both in Irish and English, can also be found 
in the " Annals o.^ the Four Masters." vol. i. 

5* The names of the ancient works used by the Four Masters are given in the Testimo- 
nium. 



Michael 0'Cle7y, O.S.F. 43 

had known by experience to be well qualified for carrying out his 
intentions in the selection and treatment of his vast materials.^* 
His three principal associates were Conary O'Clery, Peregrine 
O'Clery, and Ferfeasa O'Mulconry, and these with himself are 
now known as the ^^Four Masters." There were giants in those 
days, for in little more than four years and a half that immortal 
historical monument, '' The Annals of the Kingdom of Ireland," 
otherwise known as the *^ Annals of the Four Masters," was begun 
and completed ! The approbations affixed to the original manu- 
script copy of the work were six in number, one being from the 
pen of Malachy O'Kelly, Archbishop of Tuam, and another from 
Thomas Fleming, Archbishop of Dublin. The Testimoiiium to the 
** Annals" gives the names of the Four Masters and the authorities 
used by them, and concludes thus : 

" We have seen all these books with the learned men of whom 
we have spoken before, and other historical books besides them. In 
proof of everything which has been written above, the following 
persons put their hands to this in the convent of Donegal, the 
tenth day of August, the age of Christ being 1636 : 

'' Brothee Bernardine O'Clery, 

Guardian of Donegal, 
^'Brother Maurice Ulltagh, 
''Brother Maurice Ulltach, 
"Brother Bo:n^aventura O'Don^tell, 

Jubilate Lector." '* 

After finishing this great literary undertaking. Brother O'Clery, 
it appears, was recalled to Louvain. Here he wrote and printed, in 
1643, a dictionary or glossary of difficult Irish words, under the 
title of " Sanas-an Nuadh." This was his last work. According to 
Harris, he died in 1643, aged about sixty-eight years." 

15 O'Curry. 

16 This Testimonium, may be found both in Irish and English in Prof. O'Curry's 
"Lectures on the MS. Materials of Irish History," or in the "Annals of the Four 
Masters," edited by Dr, O'Donovan. 

^"^ Of CoNART O'Clery, the second of the Four Masters, nothing is known. " He ap- 
pears," writes Dr. O'Donovan, "to have acted as scribe, and to have transcribed the 
greater portion of these Annals, probably at the dictation of his brother (Michael 
O'Clery), or under his directions, from other MS--. He was not a member of any religious 
order, and appears to have had no property except his learning." 

Peregrine O'Clery, the third of the Four Masters, was the head of the Tirconnell 
sept of the O'Clerys. He wrote in the Irish language a life of the celebrated Hugh Roe 
O'Donnell, who died in Spain in 1602. Peregrine was a considerable land-owner, but was 
dispossessed by the fiendish, thievish system introduced by the tyrannical Government 



44 '^^^^ Prose a^id Poet7y of Irelajtd. 

Passing from the immortal authors, we shall now give the reader 
a glance at the interior of their work, that great treasuiy of Irish 
history. The full title, as given in the last edition, is : ^^ Annals of 
the Kingdom of Ireland, by the Four Masters, from the earliest Pe- 
riod to 1616. Edited from MSS. in the Library of the Eoyal Irish 
Academy and of Trinity College, Dublin, with a Translation and 
copious Xotes, bv John O'Donovan, LL.D., M.E.I.A., Barrister-at- 
Law." '' 

All events coming before the birth of our Lord and noted down 
in these Annals are preceded by the phrase ^'The age of the world 
3000," or whatever the date may happen to be. All events coming 
after the birth of our Lord are preceded by the phrase ^^The age 
of Christ 600,*' or whatever the date may be. 

EXAMPLES. 

'The Age of the World 3270. This was the first year of the 
reign of G-ann and Geanann over Ireland. 

" The Age of the "World 3273. The fourth year of Gann and 
Geanann, and they died at the end of this year, with twenty hun- 
dred along with them, in Crich-Liathain." '^ 

For some years, however, the historical details are much longer 
than in the preceding examples. 

^^ The Age of Christ 157. Conn of the Hundred Battles, after 
having been thirty-five years in the sovereignty of Ireland, was slain 

of England. His property was stolen from him beeause— hear the reason, O just Heaven ! — 
he -was "a meere Irishman, and not of English or British descent or sirname.'''' The words 
quoted are taken from an old English document which states the fact just mentioned. 
O'CIery's lands were forfeited to the King of England. He then removed to Ballycroy, 
county of Mayo, carrying with him his books, which were his chief treasure. At his 
death, in 1664, he bequeathed his precious volumes to his two sons, John and Dermot. 
This WG learn from Ms will, which is written in Irish. In it he says : "I bequeath the 
property most dear to me that I ever possessed in this world— namely, my books— to my 
two sons, John and Dermot." This wih, says Dr. O'Donovan, in rather a bad state of pre- 
servation, is still to be seen in the library of the Eoyal Irish Academy, Dublin. 

Xothing is known of Ferfeasa O'lUiuLCOXRY, the last of the Four Masters, except that 
he was a native of the county of Roscommon and a hereditary antiquary. 

18 The title "Annals of the Four Masters " was first given these annals by the learned 
Father John Colgan. In the preface to his " Acta Sanctorum Hibernise " he says : " On 
account of other reasons, chiefly from the compilers themselves, who were four most 
eminent masters in antiquarian lore, we have been led to call them the ' Annals of the 
Four Masters ' " 

In old works they are sometimes referred to as the " Annals of Donegal," from the 
monastery wheie they were written. 

1® Crich-Liathain, a district in the county of Cork. 



Michael GClery, O.S.F. 45 

by Tiberaite Tireach, son of Mai, son of Rochraidhe, King of 
Ulster, at Tuatli-Amrois. " '" 

''' The Age of Christ 1172. Brigidian O'Kane, successor of 
Maidoc," died." 

This event is followed, under the same date, by eleven other events 
of importance, seven of which are deaths of distinguished person- 
ages, one a battle, one an ecclesiastical visitation of the Archbishop 
of Armagh, one a raid, and one a synod at Tuam. 

^^ The Age of Christ 1175. O'Brien, Bishop of Kildare, died." 
Under the same date this is followed by twelve other events. 

^^The Age of Christ 1185. Auliffe O'Murray, Archbishop of 
Armagh, a brilliant lamp that had enlightened clergy and laity, 
died ; and Fogartagh O'Carellan was consecrated in his place. 

'*The west of Connaught was burned, as well churches as houses, 
by Donnell O'Brien and the English." Ten other events are noted 
down under this date. 

^'The Age of Christ 1201. Tomaltagh O'Conor, successor of St. 
Patrick and Primate of Ireland, died." This is followed by fifteen 
other events. 

" The Age of Christ 1205. The Archbishop O'Heney retired into 
a monastery, where he died soon after. 

'^ Manus O'Kane, son of the Lord of Kianaghta and Eirnacreeva," 
tower of the valor and vigor of the North, was wounded by an 
arrow, and died of the wound. Conor O'Brien, of Brawney, died on 
his pilgrimage to Clonmacnoise." Eight other events follow this 
date. 

^^ The Age of Christ 1252. Conor O'Doherty, chief of Ardmire," 
tower of hospitality and feats of arms of the North, died." 

'^ Great heat and drought prevailed in this summer, so that the 
people crossed the rivers of Ireland with dry feet. The reaping of 
the corn crops of Ireland was going on twenty days before Lam- 
mas,^* and the trees Avere scorched by the heat of the sun. 

^' New money was ordered by the King of England to be made " 
in Ireland, and the money previously in use was discontinued." 
Nine other events are recorded under the foregoing year. 

**The Age of Christ 1315. Teige O'Higgin, a learned jioet, 

20 Tuath-Amrois, a place near Tara. ^i Maidoc was the first Bishop of Ferns. 

22 Kianaghta and Firnacreeva, districts in the present county of Londonderry. 

23 Ardmire, a district in the county of Donegal. 

24 The 1st of August 25 Coined. 



4-6 The Prose and Poetry of Irela?id. 

died." Under this date are given eight other events, one of which 
is the landing of Edward Bruce, brother of the hero of Bannock- 
burn, with an army in the Xorth. 

^'The Age of Christ 1566. Mary, the daughter of Manus, son of 
Hugh Duv, son of Hugh Eoe O'Donnell, and wife of Magennis, 
died on the 8th of October." Nine other events follow this date. 

The foregoing will, we trust, give the intelligent reader an idea of 
the clear, brief, and simple manner in which most events in the 
history of Ireland are recorded in the pages of the ^^ Annals of the 
Four Masters.*' Some important events are given with more detail 
than others ; however, on this head more can be learned from the 
carefully-selected extracts which we give further on. 

The gigantic labors of Brother Michael O'Clery and his three 
associates may well be imagined when we state that Dr. John 
O'Donovan's edition of the ^^ Annals of the Four Masters " is in 
seven large quarto volumes, splendidly bound, and contains 4,215 
pages of closely-printed matter. This was the first complete 
printed edition of the "^^ Annals" ever given to the world. '^ It 
was issued in 1851 from the j^ress of the enterprising Mr. G-eorge 
Smith, of G-rafton Street, Dublin. It is given both in Irish and in 
Enolish. ^'The translation," savs the learned and accurate Prof. 
O'Curry, '^^is executed with extreme care. The immense mass of 
notes contains a vast amount of information, embracing every 
variety of topic, historical, topographical, and genealogical, upon 
which the text requires elucidation, addition, or correction ; and I 
may add that of the accuracy of the researches which have borne 
fruit in that information I can myself, in almost every instance, 
bear personal testimony." '" 

-® Thus the ''Annals of the Four Masters '" remained in manuscript over two hundred 
years before the unhappy condition of Ireland would allow such a precious treasure to be 
entirely given to the world in priot I Portions, however, had been published some years 
before Dr. O'Donovan's grand edition. That portion of the '"Annals'" ending at the year 
A.D. IITI was printed in 1826 by Rev. Charles O'Connor, librarian to the Duke of Bucking- 
ham. It occupies the whole of the third volume of his ' ' Rerum Hibernicarum Scriptores," 
a large quarto of 840 pages. " This edition," writes Prof. O'Curry, " is certainly valuable, 
but it is very inaccurate." A translation of the second part of the "Annals," extending 
from 1171 to 1616, by Mr. Owen Connellan, was issued at Dublin in 1846. 

2" JoHX O'DoKovAN, LL.D., M.R.I.A., the prof oundly learned editor of the ''Annals of 
the Four Masters," was born in an humble farm-house m the county of Kilkenny July 10, 
1899. From his earliest years he was devoted to the history and language of his native 
Erinn. When only fifteen years of age he was sent to Dublin to become the Gaelic teacher 
of Gen. Larcom. head of the famous Ordnance Survey of Ireland. Here he began his mis- 
sion. O'Donovan took his LL.D. at Trinity College and became a member of the bar in 
1847. He never practised. When the Queen's College was established at Belfast, this ripe 



Michael CClery^ O.S,F, 47 

The historic monastery in which the ^^ Annals of the Four Mas- 
ters " were written was founded for the Franciscan Friars of the 
Strict Observance in 1474 by Hugh Eoe O'Dounell, chief of Tir- 
connell, and his wife Finola, daughter of Conor O'Brien^ King of 
Thomond. ^' On the 2d of August, 1601/' writes Dr. O'Donovan, 
'Hhe building was occupied by a garrison of 500 English soldiers, 
and the friars fled into the fastnesses of the country, carrying with 
them their chalices, vestments, and other sacred furniture, though 
probably not their entire library." In the storming of this point by 
the Irish chieftains of the North, the venerable old structure took 
fire, and was soon a heap of ruins/^ ^^ It is more than probable," 
says Dr. O'Donovan, '^that the library was destroyed on this occa- 
sion. . . . After the restoration of Kory O'Donnell to his ^oosses- 
sions, the brotherhood were permitted to live in huts or cottages 
near the monastery, whence they were not disturbed till the period 
of the Eevolution. It was in one of these cottages, and not, as is 
generally supposed, in the great monastery now in ruins, that this 
work was compiled by the Four Masters." " 

and finished scholar was appointed to the chair of Irish history aiid archaeology His 
editions and translations of ancient Irish books were numerous, but the greatest work of 
his life, the work which gave him a world-wide fame as an Irish scholar and antiquarian, 
was his complete edition of the "Annals of the Four Masters." For this great work he 
was warmly complimented by such distinguished foreigners as Guizot, Hallam, and Jacob 
Grimm. His "Irish Grammar " is the highest authority on the laws and structure of the 
ancient and venerable language of Ireland. At the time of his death Dr. O'Donovan was 
associated with his eminent brother-in law, Prof. Eugene O'Curry, in translating "The 
Brehon Laws." He died in 1861. Dr. O'Donovan was a true man, a worthy Irishman, and 
a sound and deeply learned historian, whose name and labors will always be indissolubly 
connected with the famous "'Four Masters." 

28 Sir Henry Docwra, the English general, in his "Narrative" says : "Now had O'Don- 
nell, 0"Kane, MacBaron, and all the chiefs of the country thereabout made all the forces 
they were able to attend the issue of this intended meeting of my lord and me. . . . 
The Abbey of Donegal was kept only by a few friars, the situation of it close to the sea, 
and very convenient for many services, especially for a step to take Ballyshannon. . . . 
I sent 500 English soldiers to put themselves into this place, which they <^id on the 2d of 
August. . . , O'Donnell with those forces returned and laid siege to these men, which 
continued at least a month, and on the 19th of September the abbey took fire, by acci' 
dent or of purpose I could never learn, but burnt it was, all save one comer, into which 
our men made retreat. . . ." Thus it was that the cursed demon of sacrilegious destruc- 
tion always followed the hateful course of England and her troops in Ireland. But as 
sure as the stars twinkle and the sun shines, so sure will a dread day of reckoning yet 
come, and the long-standing account between Ireland and England, covering a sad 
period of over seven centuries, will be properly balanced. The great God is just : He gov- 
erns the world according to His blessed and mysterious decrees, and never fails to punish 
iniquity in His own good time. 

29 Introductory Remarks to the " Annals of the Four Masters." 

According to Dr. Petrie, the MS. copy of these Annals, now in the library of the Royal 
Irish Academy, Dublin, "is the original autograph of the work." It appears that the 
Four Masters made several copies of their great work. " Besides the copy of the first 



48 TJie P7'ose and Poetry of Ireland, 

The remains of this venerable monastery are still to be seen at a 
short distance from the town of Donegal. 

In our imperfect remarks on the saintly and learned Michael 
O'Clery and his unmatched labors, we have been carried further 
on than we at first intended. But we do not regret it. Who that 
has one spark of true manhood in him can refuse his admiration to 
the giant minds and industrious pens that planned and executed 
the "Annals of the Pour Masters'' ? The illustrious Chief of the 
Four Masters was right when he said that, should he then neglect 
to put on record the facts contained in his great work, "they 
would not again be found to be put on record or commemorated 
even to the end of the world ! " When any one asks us. Where is the 
history of holy and ancient Erinn ? we point with pride to the 
"Annals of the Four Masters,'' a work without which, says an 
English critic, "'the history of Great Britain could never be re- 
garded as complete " ; ^° and a work that, in the language of the 
learned Professor O'Curry, "must form the basis of all fmitful 
study of the history of Ireland." " Michael O'Clery was not only 
a 2:)rofound scholar, a great historian, and a holy religious ; he was 
also a devoted patriot. He lived and labored for God and his loved 
native Isle ; and Ireland, her noble sons, and their last descendants 
shall have perished from the earth before the name of the Chief of 
the Pour Masters can be forgotten. 



FIRST EXTRACT FROM THE "ANNALS OF THE FOUR MASTERS," 

VOL. I., P. 3-5. 

The Age of the World " to this year of the Deluge 2242. Forty 



TOlume,"' says Dr. Petrie, "preserved at Sto-we, there is another equally authentic and 
original in the College of St. Isidore at Rome. ... It [the one at Rome] vas probably 
the first volume of the copy sent out to Ward and used by Colgan."— Address delivered 
March 5 1831. 
3 The London Athencevm. 

31 '• Lectures on the MS. Materials of Irish History." 

32 The Age of the rrarZ(7.— This is according to the computation of the Septuagint, as 
given by St. Jerome in his edition of the ''Chronicon" of Eusebius, from whom, no doubt, 
the Four Masters took this date. His words are : " Ab Adam usque ad Diluvium, anni 
sunt MMCCXLn. Secundum Hebraeorum numerum MDCLVI." According to the Annals 
of Clonmacnoise and various ancient Irish historical poems, 16.56 years had elapsed 
from the Creation to the Flood, which was the computation of the Hebrews.— See Keat- 
ings '• History of Ireland "' (Haliday's edition, page U5), and D. O'Conor s "Prolegomena 
ad Annales," p. li., and from p. cxxvii. to cxxxv. 



Michael O'Clery^ O.S.F, 49 

days before the Deluge, Ceasair^^ came to Ireland^* with fifty girls 
and three men — Bith, Ladhra, and Fintain, their names. Ladhra 
died at Ard-Ladhrann/^ and from him it is named. He was the 
first that died^^ in Ireland. Bith died at Sliabh Beatha/'^ and was 
interred in the earn of Sliabh Beatha/® and from him the mountain 
is named. Ceasair died at Cuil-Ceasra, in Oonnaught, and was in- 



33 Ceasair.— mhis: story of the coming of Ceasair, the grand-daughter of Noah, to Ire* 
land, is given in the " Book of Leinster," fol. 2, b ; in all the copies of the '' Book of Inva- 
sions" ; in the '' Book of Fenagh " ; and in Giraldus ( ambrensis's " Topographica Hi- 
bernia," dist. ii, c. i. It is also given in Mageoghegan's translation oi the Annalts of 
Clonmacnoise ; but the translator remarks : " My author, Eochy O'Flannagan, giveth no 

• credit to that fabulous tale.' Hanmer also gives this story, as dees Keating ; but they 
do not appear to believe it, "because,"' says the latter, " I cannot conceive how the Irish 
antiquaries could have obtained the accounts of those who arrived in Ireland before 
the Flood, unless they were communicated by those aerial demons or familiar sprites 
who waited on them in times of paganism, or that they found them engraved on stones 
after the Deluge had subsided." The latter opini n has been propounded by Giraldus 
< ambrensis (M^i «?//)?'«) in the twelfth century : "Sed forte in aliqua materia inscripta, 
lapidea scilicet vel lateritia (sicut de arte musica leeitur ante diluvium) inventa istorum 
memoria, fuerat reseruata." O'Flaherty also notices this arrival of Ceasair, " forty days 
before the Flood, on the 15th day of the Moon, being the Sabbath." In the Chronicon 
Scotorum, as transcribed by Duald Mac Firbis, it is stated that this heroine was a daugh- 
ter of a Grecian. The passage runs as f oUows : " Kl. u. f . 1. x. M . ix. c. ix. Anno Mundi. 
Ill hoc anno venit fllia alicvjus de Grecis ad Iliberniam, cui nomenlleru vel Berhlia [Banbha'], 
vel Ceasar etl.filice. e', in, viri, cumea. Ladhra gubernator fuit qui primus in Hibernia tu- 
mulatus est. Hoc non narrant Antiquarii Scotoruvi.'''' 

34 Ireland. — According to the 'Book of Lecan," fol. 272, «, the Leabhir-^Gabhala of the 
O'Clerys, andKeating's '' History of Ireland, "theyputin at Dun-na-mbrac, in Corca-Duib- 
hne, now Corcaguiny, a barony in the west of Kerry. There is no place in Corcaguiny 
at present known as having borne the name ; and the Editor is of opinion that " Corca- 
Duibhne" is an error of transcribers for " Corca-Luighe.'' and that the place referred to 
is Dunnamba, in Corea Luighe, now Dunamark in the parish of Kilcommoge, barony of 
Bantry, and county of Cork. 

35 Ard-Ladhrann — i.e., Ladhra's Hill or Height. This was the name of a place on the sea- 
coast, in the east of the present county of Wexford. The name is now obsolete ; but 
the Editor thinks that it was applied originally to Ardamine, in the east of the county 
of Wexford, where there is a curious moat near the sea-coast. — See Colgan's " Acta Sanc- 
torum," pp. 210, 217, and Duald Mac Firbiss Genealogical work (Marquis of Drogheda's 
copy, pp. 23, 210, 217). The tribe of Cinel-Cobhthaigh were seated at this place. 

36 The first that died, etc. — Literally, "the first dead [ma ] of Ireland." Dr. O'Conor ren- 
ders this: '■ Occisus est Ladra apud Ard-Ladron, et ab eo nominatur. Erat ista prima 
occisio in Hibernia." But this is very incorrect, and shows that this translator had no 
critical knowledge of the language of these Annals. Connell Mageoghegan, who trans- 
lated the Annals of Clonmacnoise in 1627, renders it thus: "He was the first that ever 
dyed in Ireland, of whom Ard Leyrenn (where he died, and was interred) took the name." 

3'^ Sliab Beatha—i.e., Bith's Mountain. Now anglice SUeve Beagh, a mountain on the 
confines of the counties of Fermanagh and Monaghan. 

3« Cam of Sliabh Be atha. — This earn stiU exists, and it is situated on that part of the 
mountain of Slieve Beagh which extends across a portion of the parish of Clones belong 
ing to the county of Fermanagh. If this cam be ever explored, it may furnish evidences 
of the true period of the arrival of Bith. 



50 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

terrecl in Carn-Ceasra.^^ From Fintan is (named) Feart-Fintain," 
over Loch Deirgdheirc. 

From the Deluge until Parthalon took possession of Ireland, 
278 years ; and the age of the world when he arrived in it, 2520. 
The age of the world" when Parthalon came into Ireland, 2520 
years. These were the. chieftains who were with him : Slainge, 
Laighlinne, and Eudhraidhe, his three sons ; Dealgnat, Nerbha, 
Ciochbha, and Cerbnad, their four wives. 

SECOND EXTRACT FROM THE "AI^NALS OF THE FOUR 
MASTERS," VOL. II., PAGES 743-781. 

The Age of Christ 1000. The twenty-second year of Mael- 
seachlainn. Maelpoil, Bishop of Cluaiu-mic-Nois, and successor 
of Feichin, and'Flaithemh, Abbot of Corcach, died. Fearghal, 
son of Conaing, lord of Oileach, died. Dubhdara Ua Maelduin, 

39 Cam Ceasra, in Connaught. — O'Plaherty states in his "Ogygia." part iii. G.i.^th&t Knoc- 
mea, a hill in the baroLy of Clare and county of Galway, is thought to be this Cam 
Ceasra, and that Cuil-Ceasra was near it. This hill has on its summit a very ancient 
cam, or sepulchral heap of stones ; but the name of Ceasair is not remembered in con- 
nection with it, for it is believed that this is the earn of Finnbheara, who is believed by 
the peasantry to be king of the fairies of Connaught. G-eraldus Cambrensis states (ubi 
supra) that the place where Ceasair was buried was called Caesarae Tumulus in his own 
time : "Littu> igitur in quo narisilla primum applicuit. nameularum littus vocatur, and 
in quo praefata tumulus nominatur. ' But U'Flaherty"s opinion must be wrong, for in 
Eochaidh O'Flynn's poem on the early colonization of Ireland, as in the '" Book of Lein- 
ster," fol.3, Cam-Ceasrais placed overthe fruitful [river] Boyle. It is distinctly stated in 
the LeahTKir-Gabliala of the O Clerys that Caru-Ceasair was on the hank of the river 
Boyle, and that Cuil-Ceasra was in the same neighborhood. Cuil-Ceasra is mentioned in 
the Annals of Kilronan, at the year 1571, as on the ricer Boyle. 

-" Fearth Fintan — i.e., Fintain"s Grave. This place, which was otherwise called Tul- 
tuine, is described as in tie territory of Aradh, over Loch Deirgdheirc, now Lough Derg, 
an expansion of the Shannon between Killaloe and Portximna. According to a wild le- 
gend, preserved in Leabhar-na-hUidhri, in the Library of the Royal Irish Academy, this 
Fintan survived the Deluge, and lived till the reign of Dermot, son of Fergus-Ceirbheoil, 
having dr. ring this period undergone various transmigrations; from which O'Flaherty 
infers that the Irish Druids held the doctrine of the Metempsychosis: ''Ex hac autem 
fabula cclligere est Pythagoricae ac latonicae scholae de animarum migratione, seu in 
quaevis corpora reditu deliramenta apud Ethnicosnostros viguiss " — " Ogygia," p. 4. This 
Fintan is still remeccbered in the traditions of the coimtry as the Mathusala of Ireland, 
and it is believed in Connaught tha;!; he was a saint, and that he was buried at a locality 
called Kilfintany . in the south of the pari h of Kilcommon, barony of Erris, and county of 
Mayo. Dr. Hanmer says that this traditional fable gave rise to a proverb, common in 
Ireland in his own time: "7/" IJiad lived Fintaii's years, I could say much.'''' 

41 The age of the world.— Th-e Annals of Clonmacnoise synchronize the arrival of Partha- 
lon with the twenty-first year of the age of the Patriarch Abraham, and in the twelfth 
year of the reign of Semiramis, Empress of Assyria, A M. 1969, or 313 years after the 
Flood. O'Flaherty adopts this chronology in his •■ Ogygia," part iii. c. ii. Giraldus 
Cambrensis writes that "Bartholanus Serae filius de stirpe Japhet filii Noe" came to 
Ireland in the three hundredth year after the Deluge. 



Michael GClery^ O.S.F, 51 

lord of Feara-Luirg/'^ was slain. Laidlignen Ua Leoggan was 
slain by the Ulidians. Niall Ua Euairc was slain by the Cinel- 
Oonaill and Hugh Ua Neill. Ceannfaeladh, son of Conchobhar, 
lord of [Ui-Conaill] Gabhra, and Righbhardan, son of Dubhcron, 
died. A great depredation by the men of Mnnster in the south 
of Meath, on the Nones of January ; but Aenghus, son of Car- 
rach, with a few of his people, overtook them, so that they left 
behind the spoils and a slaughter of heads with him. The cause- 
way of Ath-Luain was made by Maelseachlainn, son of Domhnall, 
and by Cathal, son of Oonchobhar. The causeway of Ath-liag*^ 
was made by Maelseachlainn to the middle of the river. Diarmaid 
Ua Lachtnain, lord of Teathbha, was killed by his own people. 

The Age of Christ 1001. The twenty-third year of Maelseach- 
lainn. Colum, Abbot of Imleach-Ibhair [died]. Treinfher, son 
of Celecan, Prior of Ard-Macha, was slain. ConaingUaFiachrach, 
Abbot of Teach-Mochua ; Cele, son of Suibhne, Abbot of Slaine ; 
Cathalan Ua Corcrain, Abbot of Daimhinis Maenach ; Ostiarius " of 
Ceanannus ; and Flann, son of Eogham, chief Brehon "^ of Leath- 
Chuinn, died. Maelmhuaidh, son of Duibhghilla, lord of Dealbhna- 
Beathra, died. Sitric, son of Amhlaeibh, set out on a predatory 
excursion into Ulidia, in his ships, and he plundered Cill-cleithe "* 

42 Feara-Luirg—i.e.^ the men of Lurg— now a barony in the north of the county of Fer- 
managh. The family name, O'Maelduin, is now anglicized Muldoon, without the prefix 
Ua or O'. 

*^ llie Causeway of Ath liaq. — This is imperfectly given by the Four Masters. It should 
be : *'The causeway, or artificial ford, of Ath-Iiag" [at Lanesborough] "was made by 
Maelseachlainn, King of Ireland, and Cathal Ua Conchobhair, King of Connaught, each 
carrying his portion of the work to the middle of the Shannon." 

The Anna's of Ulster record the following events under this year : 

"A.D. 1000. — A change of abbots at Ardmach, viz., Maelmuire mac Eocha, instead of 
Muregan of Bohdovnai. Fergall mac Conaing, King of Aileach, died. Nell O'Royrke 
kiUed by Kindred-Owen and Conell. Maelpoil, Coarb of Fechin, mortuits est. An army by 
Mtmstermen into the south of Meath, where Aengus mac Carrai mett them, rescued 
their praies, and committed theire slaghter. The battle " \_recte, the causeway] " of 
Athlone by Maelseachlainn and Caell O'Conor."— " Cod. Clarend." tom. 49. Most of 
the same events are given in the Annals of Clonmacnoise at the year 994, as follows : 

" A D. 994" \recte^ 1001].—" They of the borders of Munster came to the neather parts of 
Meath, and there made a great prey e, and were overtaken by En os mac Carrhie Calma, 
"Who took many of their heads. Ferall mac Conyng, Prince of Aileagh, died. Neale 
O'Royrck was killed by Tyrconnell, and Hugh O'Neale of Tyrone. Moylepoyle, Bushopp 
of Clonvicknose . and Couarb of Saint Feichyn, died. King Moyleseaghlyn, and CahaU 
O'Connor of Connaught, made a bridge at Athlone over the Synaii. Dermott O'Laghtna, 
prince of the land of TeafEa. was killed by some of his own men. King Moyleseaghlyq 
made a bridge at Ath-Lyag " [now Lanesborough] ' to the one halfe of the river.'' 

^* Ostiarius— i.e., the porter and bell-ringer. See Petrie's " Round Towers," pp. STT; 
878. 

■*5 Chief hreTwn — i.e., the chief judge. 

<* CUl-cleithe.—^ow Kilclief, in the barony of Lecale and county of Down. 



52 TIu Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

and Tnis Cumliscraigh/' and carried off many prisoners from both. 
An armj was led by Aedh, son of Domhnall Ua ^eill, to Tailltin, 
bnt be retnmed back in peace and tranquillity. Conuaught was 
plnadered by Aedb, son of DombnalL Ceamacban, son of Flann, 
lord of Lnigbne, went npon a predatory excursion into Teammbagb, 
and be was killed by Muircbeartacb Ua Oiardba^ Tanist of Cairbre. 
A hosting by Brian, with the foreigners/* Leinstermen, and Mun- 
stermen to Ath-Luain, so that he weakened the Ui-Xeill of the 
South and the Connaughtmen, and took their hostages. After this 
Brian and Maelseachlainn, accompanied by the men of Ireland, as 
well Meathmen, Connaughtm^en, Munstermen, and Leinstermen, 
as the foreigners, proceeded to Dun-Dealgan,** in Conaille-Muir- 
theimhne. Aedh, son of Domhnall Ua ^eill, heir-apparent to the 
sovereignty of Ireland. ^.zA E: ^- :Th, son of Ardghar, King of 
Ulidia, with the Ulidiui^s, C-i.cx-Conaill, Cinel-Eoghain, and 
Airghialla^ repaired to the same place to meet them, and did not 
permit them to adrance further, so that they separated in peace, 
without hostages or booty, spoils or pledges. Meirleachan, i.e., the 
son of Conn, lord of Graileanga and Brodubh, i.e., the son of Diar- 
maid, were slain by Maelseachlainn. A change of abbots at Ard- 
Macha, i.e., Maelmuire, son of Eochaidh, in the place of Muireagan, 
of Both-Domhnaigh. hjs. army ** was led by Brian to Ath-cliath, 
and he received the hostages of Meath and Gonnaught. 

^~ Imig-Cumhserfngh. — !..«., Cmnhseraeh's Islaiul, now Inishcoorcey, a peninsola fonned 
Iiy the western branch of Lioch Goffii near Saul, in the comity of Down. See HaEi]s*s 
" History of the Coanty of Down," p. S7 ; *'' The Dublin Journal,'' Tcd. L, pp. IM, 396 ; and 
Beeres's '•' Ecdes. Antiq. of Down and Connor,'* etc., pp. 44, 93, 379. 

^ With the foragners. — Since Brian concerred the ambitions project of deposing Hie 
OMHiardL, IWaAliSftnAhlajTiTi he inv ariajhly joined t^e Danes agsinst lii*"^ and this is sofB.- 
cient to prore that the sabjngation of the Dsr^s — :.; :: :t Zrian's chief otqeet. The 
Mnnster writers, wiQi a Tiew of esonerating Bnxz rr : zi :_r : zivaa of nsorpation, and 
investinghis acts with the sasetion of popolar approTal, hare asserted that he had been, 
preTioosty to his first attack upon the monarch, solicitod by tl^e Tdng and chieftains of 
Connaii^itto depose Maelseachlainn and become smpreme monarch himself ; bat no 
snyiarity for this assertion is to be found in any of oar 2.:itl er.ti : 

^' DiHR-Dealgtm^ — ^ow Dnndalk, in the county of Lont^ . 

^AMAmtif^ etc — It is stated in the Royal Iri^ Acs. 1 z:- : ; 
this entryisfrom Zgabfmr L^ecnin. The AtiTials of FIs:- : t ; _ : 
under tMs ye^^r : 

Gonnao^ji: -_ . IIt^tL r_- ;:::r5 ;: II^r_ ii:.; I ;-t11 '.-z: Z^: 
peace. Tiri^:: :_:. ; ^t^t^-.:-, -r;^i; ;; ^-l_i;-. ^.rl ■7 ' 1:. . 
of Femray. 7^.:.::: r-:L:,:r_:--::„Z^:_:i:i;I:i.TL^ 1 
eng, and — r:Z, _: Z :_::i^;. 1;. . ^ ~I:-7^-t;-;LZ;i:: 

Tmlech I~-:: - 1 \ :....:.'. :.:l ^l: ; L lh :. t /_ ; I _:-:^:; 
Kmg of L-ii^T. — r _: : : ^TruTai for booty, whare Maxtagh O 2L:i 



-ri,>. 



Michael O'Clery^ O.S.jF. 53 

The Age of Christ 1002. The first year of Brian, son of Cein- 
neidigh, son of Lorcan, in sovereignty over Ireland. Seventy-six 
years " was his age at that time. Dunchadh TTa Manehain, successor 
of Caeimhghin ; Flannchadh Ua Euaidhine, successor of Ciaran, 
son of the artificer, of the tribe of Corca-Mogha ; Eoghan, son of 
Ceallach, archinneach of Ard-Breachain ; [and] Donnghal, son of 
Beoan, Abbot of Tuaim-Greine [died]. A great dejoredation by 
Donnchadh, son of Donnchadh-Finn, and the Ui-Meith, and they 
plundered Lann Leire ; but Cathal, son of Labhraidh, and the 
men of Breagha overtook and defeated them, and they left behind 
their booty ; and they were afterwards slaughtered or led captive, 
together with Sinnach Uah Uarghusa, lord of Ui-Meith. Cathal, 
son of Labhraidh, and Lorcan, son of Brotaidh, fell fighting face 
to face. Donnghal, son of Donncothaigh, lord of Gaillanga, was 
slain by Trotan, son of Bolgargait (or Tortan, son of Bolgar- 
gaith), son of Maelmordha, lord of Feara Cul, in his own house. 
Geallach, son of Diarmaid, lord of Osraighe, was slain by Donn- 
chadh, son of Gillaphadraig, the son of his father's brother. Aedh, 
son of O'Ooinfhiacla, lord of Teashbha, was slain by the Ui Con- 
chille. Conchobhar," son of Maelseachlainn, lord of Corca-Modh- 
ruadh, and Aicher Ua Traighthech, with many others, were slain 
by the men Umhall. Aedh, son of Echthighern, was slain in the 
oratory of Fearna-mor-Maedhog by Mael-na-mbo. ^^ 

"was killed. Forces by Bryan and Maelseachlainn to Dun Delgan — i.e., Dundalk — to seek 
hostages, but returned with cessation."' 

Of these entries the Annals of Clonmacnoise contain only the two following : 

"A.D. 995" [rec^e, 1002]. — "Moylemoye mac Dowgill, prince of Delvin Beathra (now 
called Mac Coghlan's Countrey), died, Colume, Abbot of Imleach, died." 

^^ Seventy-six Years.— ?>qq a.d. 925, where it is stated that Brian, son of Kennedy, was 
born in that year ; and that he was twenty-four years older than King Maelseaghlainn, 
whom he deposed. This is very much to be doubted, for, according to the Annals of 
Ulster, Brian, son of Kennedy, was bom in 941, which looks more likely to be the true 
date. He wa?, therefore, about sixty-one years old when he deposed Maelseachlainn, 
"who was then about fifty-three. 

=2 Conchohhar. — He was the progenitor after whom the family of O'Conchobhair, or 
O'Conor, of Corcomroe, in the west of the county of Clare, took their hereditary sur- 
name. 

^3 2Iael-na-nibo — i.e., chief of the cows. His real name was Donnchadh, and he was the 
grandfather of Murchadh, after whom the Mac Murroughs of Leinster took their here- 
ditary surname. 

The Annals of Ulster notice the following events under this year : 

"A.D. 1002. — Brienus regnare incepit. Flanncha O'Ruain, Coarb of Kiaran ; Duncha 
O'Manchan, Coarb of Caemgin ; Donngal mac Beoan, Airchinnech of Tuomgrene; Owen 
mac Cellay, Airchinnech of Ardlrekan, quieverunt in ChTisto. Sinach O'h Uargusa, King of 
Meith" [Ui Meith]. 'and Cahal mac Lavraa, heyre of Meath, fell one with another" 
Irecte, fell the one by the other]. "•Geallach mac Diarmada, King of Ossory ; Hugh 



54 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

The Age of Christ 1003. The second year of Brian. Aenghus, 
son of Breasal, successor of Cainneach, died on his pilgrimage at 
Ard Macha. Dubhshlaine Ua Lorcain, Abbot of Imleach Ibhair, 
died. Eochaidh Ua Flann again/* airchinneach of the Lis-aeid- 
headh" of Ard-Macha, and of Cluain-Fiachna/^ the most distin- 
guished historian of the Irish, died. An army was led by Brian 
and Maelseachlainn into IN'orth Connaught, as far as Traigh- 
Eotb ail e," to proceed around Ireland; but they were prevented by 
the Ui-Xeill of the Xorth. Domhnall, son of Flannagan, lord of 
Peara-Li, died. larnan, son of Finn, son of Duibhghilla, was 
slain by Core, son of Aedh, son of Duibhghilla, in the doorway of 
the oratory of Gailiniie,'^ by treachery. Two of his own people 
slew this Core immediately, by which the name of God and 
Machonog was magnified. Brian, son of Maelruanaidh, lord of 
"West Connaught, was slain by his own people. The two O'Canaii- 
nains were slain by O'Maelcloraidh. Muireadhach, son of Diar- 

O'Coniacla, King of Theva ; Conor Mac Maelsechlainn, King of Torcmurua ; and Acher 
surnamed of the fat," ["were] " all killed. Hugh mac Echtiern killed within the oratory 
of Ferna-more-Maog."— " Cod. Clarend.," torn. 49. 

The accession of Brian to the monarchy of Ireland is noticed in the Annals of Clon- 
macnoise under the year 993 ; but the translator has so interpolated the text with his 
own ideas of the merits of Brian as to render it useless as an authority. His words 
are : 

" A.D. 996, — Bryan Borowe took the kingdom and government thereof out of the hands 
of King Moyleseaghlyn, in 5uch a manner as I do not intend to relate in this place " [Tigher- 
nach seiYS2)er doluin — Ed.] " He was very weU worthy of the government, and reigned 
twelve years, the most famous king of his time, or that ever was before or after him, of 
the Irish nation. For manhood, fortune, maners, laws, liberality, religion, and other 
good parts, he never had his peer among them all ; though some chroniclers of the 
Mngdome made comparisons between him and Con Kedcagh, Conarie More, and King 
Neale of the Nine Hostages ; yett he, in regard of the state of the kingdome, when he 
came to the government thereof, was judged to bear the bell from them all." 

5* Eochaidh Ua Fkcnnayain.—Connell Mageoghegan, who had some of his writings, calls 
him " Eoghie O'Flannagan. Archdean of Armagh and Clonfeaghna." See note b, under 
A.M. 2224 ; and extract from Leabhar-na-h Uuidhtiva. Petrie's "■ Uound Towers of Ireland." 
pp. 103. 104. O ReUly has given no account of this writer in his " Descriptive Catalogue 
of Irish Writers. " 

55 Li -aeidheadh — i.e.. Fort of the Guests. 

^^ Cluain Fiuchna.—^ow Clonfeakle, a parish in the north of the county of Armagh. 
The ancient parish church stood in the townland of Tullydowey, in a curve of the river 
Blackwater, on the north or Tyrone side. See the Ordnance Surrey of the county of 
Tyrone, sheet 62. Jocehne calls this church Cluain-Jiacail, inhis " Life of St. Patrick," c. 
87 ; but in the Taxation of 1306, and in the Registries of the Archbishops Sweteman, 
Swayne, Mey, Octavian, and Dowdall, it is called by the name of Cluain-Fiachna, 
variously orthographied, thus: "Ecclesia de Clonfecyna,"' Taxation 1306; " Ecclesia 
parochialisde vJlonfekyna," .ffeg-i^i. Milv. Sweteman, a.d. 1367, fol. 45,5; " Clonfeguna,"' 
Beg. Swayne, a.d. 1428, fol. 14, h ; " Clonfekena," Reg. Mey, i. 23, 5, iv. 16, h ; " Clonfekena," 
Reg. Octavian, fol. 46, b ; " Clonfekena." Beg. Dowdall, a.d. 1535, p. 251. 

^■^ Traigh-Eothile . — A large strand near ta lysadare in the county of Sligo. 

'^ Gailinne. — Now Gallen, in the barony of Garrycas;le and King's County. 



Michael GClery, 0,S.F. 55 

maid, lord of Ciarraiglie-Luachra, died. Naeblian, son of Mael- 
chiarain, chief artificer of Ireland, died. The battle of Craebh- 
tulclia,^^ between the Ulidians and the Cinel-Eoghain, in which the 
Ulidians were defeated. In this battle were slain Eochaidh, son of 
Ardghair, King of Ulidia, and Dubhtuinne, his brother ; and the 
two sons of Eochaidh — i.e,, Cudniligh and Domhnall ; Gairbhidh, 
lord of Ui-Eathach; Gillapadraig, son of Tomaltach ; Cumnscach, 
son of Elathrai ; Dubhshlangha, son of Aedh ; Cathal, son of 
Etroch ; Oonene, son of Mnircheartach, and the most part of the 
Ulidians in like manner, and the battle extended as far as Dun- 
Eathach ''° and Druimbo." Donnchadh Ua Loingsigh, lord of Dal- 
Araidhe and royal heir of TJlidia, was slain on the following day 
by the Cinel-Eoghain. Aedh, son of Domhnall Ua Neill, lord of 
Oileach, and heir-apparent to the sovereignty of Ireland, fell in the 
heat of the conflict, in the fifteenth year of his reign and the 
twenty-ninth of his age. A battle between Tadhg Ua Ceallaigh 
with the Ui-Maine, and the men of West Meath assisting the Ui- 
Maine [on the one side] , and the Ui-Fiachrach Aidhne, aided by 
West Connaught [on the otlier], wherein fell GilUiceallaigh, son of 
Comhaltan Ua Cleirigh, lord of Ui-Fiachrach ; Conchobhar, son of 
Ubban ; Oeannfaeladh, son of Euaidhri, and many others. Finn, 

59 Craebh-tulcha — i.e., the Spreading Tree of the Hill. This is probably the place now 
called Crewe, situated near Glenavy, in the barony of Upper Massareene, and county of 
Antrim. 

80 Dun Eathacfi. — Now Duneight, in the parish of Blaris, or Lisburn, on the River La- 
gan. See Reeves's " Ecclesiastical Antiquities of Down and Connor,' etc., pp. 47, 342. 

8^ Druim-ho — i.e.. Hill of the Cow — now Dunbo, a townland containing the ruins of an 
ancient Irish Round Tower, situated in a parish of the same name, in the barony of 
Upper Castlereagh, and county of Down. Tbid.,^ 342, note J. 

The Annals of Ulster record the following events under this year : 

'A.D. 1O03. — Aenghus mac Bresail, Coarb of Cainnech, in Ardmach, in peregrinatione 
quievit. Eocha O'Flannagan, Airchinneeh of Lissoigl " [at Ardmach], "and Cluoan 
Fiachna, cheif e poet and chronicler, 68 anno etatis sue obiit. Gillakellai mac Comaltan, 
King of Fiachrach Aigne, and Byran mac Maelruanai, occisi sunt. Donell mac Flannagan, 
King of Fer-Li, and Mureach mac Diarmada, King of Ciarray Luoachra, moriuntur. The 
battle of Krivtelcha, betwene Ulster and Kindred-Owen, where Ulstermen were over- 
throwne. Eocha mac Ardgar, King of Ulster, there killed Duvtuinne, his brother, his 
two sonns, Cuduly and Donell, and the slaughter of the whole armyboth good and bade, 
viz., Garvith, King of O'Nehach, Gilpatrick mac Tomaltay, Gumascach mac Flathroy, 
Duvslanga mac Hugh, Cahalan mac Etroch, Conene mac j\Iurtagh, and most of Ulster- 
men ; and pursued the slaughter to Dunechdach and to Drumbo, where Hugh mac 
Daniell, King of Ailech, was killed ; but Kindred-Owen saith that he was killed by them- 
selves. Donncha O'Longsi, King of Dalnarai, killed by Kindred-Owen ^;(:?'<^o/i//n. Forces 
by Bryan to Traohaila to make a circuit, untill he was prevented by Tyrone. Two 
O'Canannans killed by O'Muldoray. Duvslane OLorkan, Airchinneeh of Imlech Ivair, 
Qidevit. Maelsechlainn, King of Tarach, fell off his horse, that he was like to die." 
—" Cod. Clarend.," torn. 49. 



56 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland. 

son of Marcan, Tanist of I7i Maine, fell in the lieat of the conflict. 
Domhnall, son of Flannas'an, died. Madadhan, son of Aeno-lius, 
chief of Gaileanga. Beaga, and Feara-Cul, was slain. 

The A^e of Christ lOOJ:. The third ve-ir of Brian. Domhnall, 
son of Maichniadh, Abbot of Mainstir-Buithe, a bishoj) and 
holv senior, died. St. Aedh, lector of Frefoit, bishop, wise man, 
and pilgrim, died after a good life at Ard-Macha, with great honor 
and veneration. In lamentation of him was said : 

" The wise man, the archbishop, 
The saint of God of comely face, 
Apostleship has departed from iis, 
Since Aedh departed from the side of Teamhair,^* 
Since Aedh of sweet Breaghmhagh hyeth not, 
Of bright renown, in sweet verses sung ; 
A loss is the gem, shining and pleasant, 
The learning of Ireland has perished in him." 

Maelbriofhde Ua Eimheadha, Abbot of la, died. Domhnall. son 
of XiaU, Abbot of Cill-Lamliraighe," died. Foghartach, Abbot 
of Leithghlinn and Saighir, died. Muireadhach, lord of Conaille, 
was slain bv the Mu^hdhorna. Gillacomhohaill, son of Arda'har. 
and his son, and two hundred along with them, were slain by Mael- 
rnanaidh, son of Ardghar, contending for the kingdom of Ulidia. 
A hosting by Brian, son of Ceinneidigh, with the men of the South 
of Ireland, into Cinel-Eoghain and Flidia, to demand hostages. 
Thev proceeded throno-h Meath, where thev remained a nio^ht at 
Tailltin. They afterwards marched northwards, and remained a 
week at Ard-Macha ; and Brian left twenty ounces of gold [as an 
offering] upon the altar at Ard-Macha. After that they went into 
Dal-Araidhe, and carried off the jDledges of the Dal-Araidhe and 
Dal-Fiatach in general. Ingeirci, lord of Conailli, was slain. 
Ath-cliath was bui-ned by the 2:)eople of South Breagha by secrecy. 
Leath-Chathail was jilundered by Flaithbheartach TJa Xeill. and 
Aedh, son of Tomaltach, lord of Leath-Chathail, was slain by 

*2 Frora the side of Teainhair. — This alludes to the position of Trefoid, now Trevet, in 
Meath. This passage is incorrectly translated bv Dr. O'Conor, •which is less excusable 
as Colgan renders it correctly (Trias Thaum.) 

^'"^ Oill-Lamhraighi. — In the gloss to the Feilire-Aenguis, at 6th of December, the church, 
of COl-Lamhraighe, of Trhich Gobban 2Iac ITi Lanairech vas the patron, is placed in Ui 
Cairthenn, in the Trest of Ossory. It is the church novr called Eillamery, situated in the 
barony of Eells, in the county of Kilkenny. There is a tombstone with a very ancient 
inscription near this church. 



Michael OClery^ O.S.F, 57 

him. A battle was gained at Locli-Bricrenii " by Flaithbheartacb. 
over the Ui-Eathach and the Ulidians, where Ai'tan, royal heir of 
Ui-Eathaeh, was slain. 

The Age of Christ 1005. The fourth year of Brian. Finghin, 
Abbot of Eos Ore, died. Dunchadh, son of Dunadhach, lector of 
Cluain-mic-Xois, and its anchorite afterwards, head of its rule and 
history, died ; he was the senior of the race of Coun-na-mbocht. 
Maelrnanaidh, son of Aedh Ua Dnbhda, lord of Ui Fiachrach- 
Mnirisge, and his son, i.e., Maelseachlainn, and his brother, i.e., 
Gebhennach, son of Aedh, died. A gi-eat 2:)rey was made by Flaith- 
bheartacb, son of Muircheartach, lord of Aileach, in Conaille- 
Muirtheimhne ; but ^laelseachlainn, King of Teamhair, overtook 
him [and his party], and they lost two hundred men by kilUng and 
capturing, together with the lord of Ui-Fiachrach Arda-sratha. 
Cathal, son of Dunchadh, lord of Gaileanga Mora, was slain. 
Echmhilidh Ua h Aitidhe, lord of Ui-Eathach, was slain by the 
Ulidians themselves. 

Extract from the Book of Cluain-mic-Xois, " and the Book 
of the Island," i.e., the Island of the Saints in Loch Eibh. A 
great army was led by Brian, son of Ceinneidigh, into Cinel- 
Conail and Cinel-Eoghain to demand hostages. The route they 
took was through the middle of Connatight, over Eas-Euaidh, 
through the middle of Tir-Couaill, through Cinel-Eoghaiu, over 



®* Locli Brierenn. — Nov Longhbrickland. in the cotmty of Do\ni. The Annals of Ulster 
record the following events under this year : 

" A.D. 1004 — Hugh O Flanagan, Airchi. nech of Maine-Coluim-Cill " [now Moone, in the 
south of the county of KUdare. — Ed.] ; '• Ragnal mac Gofray, King of Islands ; Conor mac 
Daniell, King of Loch Behech ; Maelbryde O'Rimea, Abbot of Aei ; Donell mac Zilacnia, 
Airchinnech of Mainister, i/i Christo rnortxii sunt. Gilcomgail, King of Ulster, killed 
Maelruanay, his owne brother. Hugh mac Tomalty killed by Flavertagh O'Xell, 
the day he spoyled Lecale. IVIuregaa of Lothdonay, Coarb of Patrick, in the TSd year 
of his age, died. Hugh of Treod, cheif e in learning and prayer, mortuus est in Ardmach 
Ab::ttlo between the men of Scotland at Xonedir, where the King of Scotland, Cinaeth- 
mac-DuiT, was slain. An overthrow at Lochbrickrenn given to Ulstermen and O'Xe 
hachG, where Artan, heyre of Ehaches, fell. Great forces by Bryan, with the lord 
and nobility of Ireland about him to Ardmach, and left £0 ounces cf gold upon 
Patrick's altar, and went back with pledges of all Ireland with him.''—'' Cod. Clarend.," 
torn. 49. 

^= £ookofClualnrmic-2^ois.—ThisisY)TdbablYt\ie chronicle translated by Connell Mac- 
geoghegan in 1C£7 ; but this passage is not to be found in the translation. 

66 The Bool:: of i^ie liZznd.—This. was a book of -\jinals, which were continued by Augus- 
tin Magraidin to his own time, a.d. 14C5. Ware had a part cf these annals, with some 
additior^ made after jlagraidin's death. See Harris's edition of Ware's '' Writers of 
Ireland,"' p. Cr ; Colgan's "Acta Sanctorum,"'-. Z\ and ArchdaH's "• Monast. Heb.." p. 
442. These aonals have not yet been identified, il extant. 



58 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

Feartas Camsa/^ into Dal-Keada, into Dal-Araidhe, into Ulidia, 
into Conaille-Muirtheimlme, and they arrived about Lammas at 
Bealach-duin/^ The Leinstermen then proceeded southward across 
Breagha to their territory, and the foreigners ^^ by sea round east- 
wards [southwards ?] to their fortress. The Munstermen also and 
the Osraighi went through Meath westwards '" to their countries. 
The Uhdians rendered hostages on this occasion ; but they [Brian 
Borumha and his party] did not obtain the hostages of the races of 
Conall and Eoghan. Mael-na-mbo, lord of Ui-Ceinnsealaigh, was 
killed by his own tribe. Maelruanaidh, son of Ardghar, King of 
Ulidia, was slain by Madadhan, son of Domhnall, after being one 
half-year in the govern me nt of the jorovince. Madadhan, son of 
Domhnall, King of Ulidia, was killed by the Tore, i.e., Dubh- 
tuiuDe, in the middle of Duu-Leathghlaise, in violation of the 
guarantees of the saints of Ireland. Dubhtuinne, i.e., the Tore, 
King of Ulidia, was slain, through the miracles of God and Patrick, 
by Muireadhach, son of Madadhan, in revenge of his father. Muire- 
gen Bocht, of Both-Domhnaigh, successor of Patrick, died ; seventy 
years his age. 

The Age^of Christ 1006. The fifth year of Brian. Ceannfailadh, 
airchinneach of Druim-mor-Mocholmog; Caicher, son of Maenach, 
Abbot of Mungairid; and Ceallach Ua Meanngorain, airchinneach 

'■^ Feartas-Cam^a . — i.e., the ford or crossing of Camus. This was the name of a ford on 
the river Bann, near the old church of Camus-Macosquin. See Colgan's " Acta Sancto- 
rum,'* p. 147 ; and Reeves's " Ecclesiastical Antiquities" of Down and Connor, etc., pp. 
342-388. 

^'^ B alach-didH—'FxoTa the references to the sea and the plain of Bregia in this passage, 
it would appear that the Bealach-duin here mentioned was in the present county of , 
Louth. It is probably intended for Bealach-Duna-Dealgan— i.e., the road or pass of 
Dundalk. 

*'-' Tlie Foreigners . — i.e., the Danes, who were Brian Borumha's allies, and who assisted 
him in deposing Maelseachiainn II., and in weakening the power of the northern Ui Neill. 

"f* Westicaj'ds. — The writer is not very accurate here in describing the points of the 
compass. Westwards will apply to the men cf Connaught,but not to those of Ossory, who 
dwelt southwards of the point of their dispersion. 

The Annals of Ulster record the following events under this year : 

'■' A.D. 1305. — Armeach macCoscrai, bishop and scribe of Ardmach. and Finguine, abbot 
of Roscre, rnortui sunt. Maelruanai ODuvdai, his sonn, Maelsechlainn, and his cosen, 
Gevvennach, rnortui sunt. Ehnmili O'Haty, King of Ouchach, by Ulster. Maelruanai mac 
Flannagan, by the Conells, and Cahalan, King of Galeng. occisi sunt. Forces about Ireland 
by Bryan into Connanght, over Esroe, into Tir-Conell, through Kindred-Owen, over Fer- 
tas-Camsa, in Ulster, in Aenach-ConaiJl until Lammas to Bealach-Maion " [recte, duinl, 
"until they submitted to Patrick's reliques" \recte, to Patricks clergy], "and to his 
Coarb. Maelmuire mac Eochaa. Battle between Scotsmen and Saxons, where Scotsmen 
were discomJitted with a great slaughter of their good men. MaeLnambo, King of Cinuse- 
lai, killed by his owne [a suis occisus esf] ; " Gilcomgaill, mac Ardgair, mic Macdugan,King 
of Ulster, klUed by his brother, Maelruanai mac Ardgair."— •" Cod. Clarend. " tom. 49. 



Michael OClery, O.S.F. 59 

of Coreacli, died. Fiachra Ua Focarta, priest of Cluain-fearta-Bre- 
nainn, died. Of him was said : 

' Of all I traversed of Ireland, 
Both field and church, 
I did not get cold or want, 
Till I reached the fair Cluain-fearta. 
Christ ! we would not have parted in happiness 
Were it not for Fiachra of the sweet language. " 

Tiiathal Ua Maoilmaclia, a learned man, and comliarba of Patrick 
in Mnnster ; and Robhartacli Ua h Ailgliinsa, anchorite of Ckiain- 
mic-Nois, died ; he was of the tribe of Breaghmnaiue. Trenfhear 
Ua Baigheallain/^ lord of Dartraighe, Avas slain by the Cinel- 
Conaill on Loch-Eirne. Coconnacht, son of Dunadhaigh, chief of 
Sil-Anmchadha, was slain by Murchadh, son of Brian [Bornmha] 
Ua Dnnghalaigh, lord of Muscraighe-thire ; slew him in the vicinity 
of Lothra. Mnireadhach, son of Crichan, resigned the snccessor- 
shi}^ of Colnm Cille for the sake of Grod. The renewal of the fair of 
Tailltin by Maelseachlainn ; and Feardomhnac Avas apj)ointed to 
the successorship of Colnm Cill, by advice of the men of Ireland. 
The Great Gospel of Oolum Gill was stolen at night from the 
western Erdomh "'"^ of the great chnrch of Ceanannns. This was the 
principal relic of the Western world on acconnt of its singnlar 
cover, and it was found after twenty nights and two months, its 
gold having been stolen oU it and a sod OA^r it. An army was led 

'1 Trenfliear Ua Baoigheallain. — This name ■would now be anglicized Traynor O'Boylan. 
The O'Boylans, no-w Boylans, were chiefs of Dartry-Coininse, the present barony of Dartry, 
in the county of Monaghan, adjoining Lough Erne. 

^2 Erdomh^ i.e., the porticus, sacristy, or lateral building attached to the great church of 
Kells. See Petrio's "'Round Towers of Ireland," pp. 433-438. 

The Annals of Ulster notice the following events under this year : 

"A.D. 1003.— Alaelruana mac -:*; rdgair killed by M adagan mac Donell. Cellach O'Menn- 
gor.:n. Airchinuech of Cork, qinevit. Trener O'Boyllan, Eing of Dartry, killed by Kindred- 
Connell at Loch Erne. Madagan mac Donell, king of Ulster, killed by Tork, in St. Brides 
Church, in the midest of Dundalenglas. Cuconnacht mac Dunai killed by Bryan j^er 
dolum. An army by Flahvertach O'Xell into Ulster, that he brought seven pledges from 
them, and killed the King of Lecale, Cu-Ula mac Aengusa. Forces by Bryan into Kin- 
dred-Owen to Dunerainn, nere Ardmach, and brought with him Criciden. C oarb of Fin- 
nei Maibile, who was captive from Ulster with Kindred-Owen. The Tork, King of Leister, 
killed by Mureach mac Crichain, renounced" \recte, resigned] "the coarbship of Colum 
Gill for God. The renewing of the fa/ire of Aenach Taillten by Maelsechlainn. Ferdov- 
nach " [was in&talled] "in the coarbship of Columkill by the advice of Ireland in that 
faire. The book called Socel mor, or Great Gospell of Colum Cili. stolen." — " Cod. Cla- 
rend. ," torn. 49. The entry relating to the stealing of the Gospel of St < olumbkille is left 
imperfect in the old translation of the Annals of Ulster, but in O Conor's edition the 
passage is complete, and agrees with th^ text of the Four Masters. 



6o The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

by Flaithbheartacli Ua Neilliii to Ulidia, and carried off seven hos- 
tages from them, and slew the lord of Leath-Ohathail, i.e., Cun- 
ladli, son of Aenghus. Domhnall, son of Dubhtuinne, King of 
Ulidia, was slain by Muireadhach, son of Madudhan, and Uargh- 
aeth of Sliabli Fnaid. Airmeadhach, son of Oosgrach, bishop and 
scribe of Ard-Macha, died. 

The Age of Christ 1007. The sixth year of Brian. Muir- 
eadhach, a distinguished bishop, son of the brother of Ainmire 
Bocht, was suffocated in a cave ^^ in Gaileanga of Corann. Fear- 
domhnach, successor of Finnen of Cluain-Iraird, died. Finshnechta 
Ua Fiachra, Abbot of Teach-Mochna ; and Tuashal O'Conchobhair, 
successor of Finntan, died. Maelmaire Ua Gearagain, successor 
of Cainneach and Ceileachair, son of Donncuan, son of Ceinneidigh, 
Abbot of Tir-da-ghlas, died. A victory was gained by Aenghus, 
son of Carrach, over the Feara Ceall, wherein fell Demon Gatlach 
Ua Maelmhuaidh. Great frost and snow from the eighth of the ides 
of January till Easter. Muireadhach, ^* son of Dubhtuinne, King 
of Ulidia [was slain]. 

The Age of Christ 1008. The seventh year of Brian. Cathal, 
son of Carlus, successor of Cainneach ; Maelmuire Ua h Uchtain, 
comharba of Ceanannus, died. Echthighearn Ua Goirmghilla, died. 
Dubhchobhlaigh, daughter of the King of Connaught and wife of 
Brian, son of Ceinneidigh, died. Tadhg Dubhshuileach," son of 

■^3 A Cave. — This is probably the cave of Keshcorran, in the barony of Corran and 
county of Sligo, conoiected. with which curious legends still exist among the peasantry. 

■'^ Muireadhach. —This is inserted in a modern hand, and is left imperfect. The Annals 
of Ulster notice the following events under this year : 

"A.D. 1007. — Ferdovnach, i oarb of Kells, vizt Cenannas ; Celechair, mac Duncuan mic 
Cinedi, Coarbof Colum mac Crivthainn ; and Maelmuire, Coarb of Cainnech, in Christo 
dormurunt. j\Iureaeh mac Madugan, heyre of Ulster, killed by his own. Fachtna, 
Coarb of Finian of Clondraird, quievit. Great frost and snow from the first " \recte^ 
sixth] '' Id. of January untill East&r." — "Cod. Clarend ," tom. 49. 

'^^ Tadhg Dubhshmleach.—i.e.^ Teigc, Thaddaeus, or Timothy, the Blackeyed. 

The Annals of Ulster record the following events under this year : 

"A.D. 1008. — Extream revenge by Maelsechlainn upon Lenster. Cahal mac Carlusa, 
Coarbh of Cainnech, and Maelmuire OHuchtan, Coarbof 'S.ells,.,mortuisunt. Maelan-in- 
gai-moir, i. of the great speare, King of O'Dorhainn, killed by Kindred-Owen in Ardmach, 
ind the midest of Trian-mor, for the uprising of both armyes. Donncha O Cele blinded 
Flahvertach at Inis-Owen, and killed him after. An overthrow given to Connaght byBref- 
nymen ; and another by Connaght given them. An army by Flahvertach 0"Nell to the 
men of Bregh, from whom he brought many cowes. Maeimorra, King of Lenster, gott a 
fall, and burst " [broke] " his legg. 

" Duvchavlay, daughter of the King of Connaght, wife to Bryan mac Cinnedy, mortua 
est. The oratory of Ardmach this yeare is covered with lead ' \_0rat07dum Ardmachain 
hoc anni pliimbo tegitur\ " Clothna mac Aengusa, chief poet of Ireland, died " — "Cod. 
Olarend.." tcm. 49. 



Michael GClery, O.S.R 6i 

the King of Connauglit, was slain by the Conmaicni. Gussan, son 
of Ua Treassach, lord of Ui-Bairrche, died. Madndhan, lord of 
Sil-Anmcliadha, was slain by his brother. An army was led by 
riaithblieartach Ua Xeill against the men of Breagha, and carried off 
a great cattle spoil. A battle was gained over the Conmaicni by the 
men of Breifne. A battle was gained over the men of Breifne by 
the Connaughtmen. Clothna, son of Aenghus, chief poet of Ire- 
land in his time, died. G-usan, son of Treasach, lord of Ui-Bairche, 
died. 

The Age of Christ 1009 [rede 1010]. The eighth year of Brian. 
Conaing, son of Aedhagan, a bishop, died at Clnain-mic-Xois ; he 
was of the tribe of the Mnghdhorna-Maighen. Crunnmhael, a bi- 
shojo, died. Scannlan Ua Dunghalain, Abbot of Dnn-Leathghlaise, 
was blinded, Diarmaid, successor of Bearrach ; Muireadhach, son 
of Mochlqjngseach, airchinneach of !Mucnamb ; Maelsuthain Ua 
Cearbhaill, [one] of the family of Inis-Faithleann/^ chief doctor of 
the Western world in his time, and lord of Eoghanacht of Loch- 
Lein," died. Marcan/^ son of Ceinneidigh, head of the clergy of 
Miinster, died. The comharba of Colnm, son of Crimhthainn, i.e., 
of Tir-da-ghlas, Innis-Cealtra, and Cill-Dalua, died. Cathal, son of 
Conchobhar, King of Connanght, died after j)enance ; he was the 
grandson of Tadhg of the Tower. Dearbhail, daughter of Tadhg, 
son of Cathal, died. Cathal, son of Dubhdara, lord of Feara-Ma- 
nach/^ died. Muireadhach Ua h Aedha, lord of Muscraighe [died]. 
An army was led by Brian to Claenloch ^° of Sliabh-Fuaid, and he 
obtained the hostages of the Cinel-Eoghain and Ulidians. A^dh, 

■^6 Inis-Faithleann. — Now Innisfallen, an island in the Lower Lake of KlUarney, in the 
county of Kerry, on which are the ruins of several ancient churches. 

''"' Eoghanacht Locha-Lein. — A territory in the county of Kerry, comprised in the pre- 
sent barony of Magunihy, in the southeast of that county. 

^^ Marcari, — He was a brother of Brian Borumha. 

''^ Feara-Manach — Xow Fermanagh. 

®° Claenloch. — Situated near Newtown Hamilton, in the county of Armagh. 

The Annals of Ulster record the following events under this year : 

"A.D. 1009. — Cahal mac Cor.or, King of Connaght " \in penitentia moritui% " Mureach 
O'Hugh, King of JMuskry, and Cahal mac Duvdara, King of Fermanach, mortui sunt. 
Maelsuhain O'Cerval, chiefe learned of Ireland, and King of Eoganacht Locha-Lein. Makan 
mac Cinncdy, Coarb of Colum mac Crivhainn, of Inis-Celtra ; and Killdalua and Mure- 
ach mac ilochloingse, Airchirmech of Mucknav, in Christo dormierunt. Eugh mac Cuinn. 
heyre of Aileach, and Duncuan, King of Mugom, occisi sunt. Forces by Bryan to Claen- 
loch of Sliave-Fuaid, that he got the pledges of Leth Cuinn, i. " \the northcrn\ "half of 
Irland. Estas torrida^ Autumnus fructuosus. Scannlan O' Dungalain, Trince of Dundaleh- 
glas, was forcibly entered into his mansion" {recte, was forcibly entered upon in his 
mansion], " himsslf blinded after he was brought forth at Finavar by Nell mac Duv- 
thuinne. Dervaile, Tegmac Cabal's daugfiter, mortua est.""—'' Cod. Clarend.,"' torn. 49. 



62 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

son of Conn, royal lieir of Oileacli ; and Donncuan, lord of Mugli- 
dhorna, were slain. 

The Age of Christ 1010 {i-ecte 1011]. The ninth year of Brian. 
Mnireadhach, son of Crichan, snccessor of Colum-Cille and Adam- 
nan, a learned man, bishop, and virgin, lector of Ard-Macha, and 
intended successor of Patrick, died after the seventy-fourth year of 
his age, on the fifth of the calends of January, on Saturday night ®^ 
precisely ; and he was buried with great honor and veneration in the 
great church of Ard-Macha, before the altar. Flann Ua Donn- 
chadha, successor of Oenna,^^ died. Elaithbheartach Ua Cethenen, 
successor of Tighearnach, a [venerable] senior and distinguished 
bishop, was mortally wounded by the men of Breifne, and he after- 
wards died in his own church at Cluain-Evis. Dubhthach, son of 
larnan, airchinneach of Dearmhach ; Dalach of Disert-Tola, succes- 
sor of Feichin and Tola, [and] a distinguished scribe ; [and] Fachtna, 
successor of Finnen of Cluain-Iraird, died. An army was led by 
Brian to Magh-Corrann,^^ and he took with him the lord of Cinel- 
Conaill, i.e., Maelruanaidh Ua Maeldoraidh, in obedience to Ceann- 
Coradh.^" Maelruanaidh Ua Domlmaill,^^ lord of Cinel-Luighdheach, 
was slain by the men of Magh-Ithe. Oenghus Ua Lapain, lord of 
Cinel-Enda,^^ was slain by the Cenil-Eoghain of the Island." Mur- 

^1 On Saturday Night. — These criteria clearly show that the Annals of the Pour Masters 
as well as the Annals of Ulster, are antedated at this period by one year. In the year 
1010, the fifth of the Calends of January, or 28th of Dacember, fell' on Friday, as appears 
from the Dominical letters, and of the cycle of the raoon. But the next year, ^^011, the 
fifth before the Calends of January, or 28th of December, fell on Saturday. 

8"^ Oenna — i.e., Endeus of Killeany in Aranmore, an island in the Bay of G^dway. 

83 Magh-Corrann. — Not identified. 

8^ Ceann- Coradli — i.e. , Head of the Weir, now anglicized Kincora. This was the name of 
a hill in the present town of Killaloe, in the county of Clare, where the kings of Tho- 
mond erected a palace. It extended from the present Roman Catholic chapel to the brow 
of the hill over the bridge, but not a vestige of it remains. The name is still retained i i 
Kincora Lodge, situated not far from the original site of Brian Borumha's palace. 

85 TJa DomJuiailL—'Soy^ anglice O'Donneil. This is the first notice of the surname Ua 
Domhnaill to be found in the Irish annals. This family, who, after the English invasion, 
became supreme princes or kings of Tirconnell, had been previously chiefs of the can- 
tred of Cinel-Luighdheach, of which Kilmacrenan, in the county of Donegal, was the prin- 
cipal church and residence. They derive their hereditary surname from. Domhnall, son 
of Eigneachan, who died in the year 901, who was son of Dalach, who died ia 868, who 
was the youngest son of Muircheartach, son of ( eannfaeladh, son of Gorbh, son of Ro- 
nan, son of Lughaidh, from whom was derived the tribe-name of Cinel-Luigheach, son 
of Sedna, son of Fearghus Ceannfoda, i.e., Fergus the Longheaded, son of Conall Gulban, 
son of Niall of the Nine Hostages, monarch of Ireland in the beginning of the fifth 
century. 

8" Cinel-Emla.—K territory lying between Lough Foyle and Lough Swilly, in the present 
county I f Donegal. 

^'' The CineJ-Eoghain of the Island — i.e , of Inis-Eoghain, now the barony of Inishowen, 



Michael GClery, OS.F, 61, 

chadli, son of Brian, with tlie men of Munster, the Leinstermen 
with the Ui Xeill of the South, and Flaithblieartach, son of Muir- 
cheartach, lord of Oileach, with the soldiers of the Xorth, to plunder 
Cinel-Luighdheach, and they carried off three hundred and a great 
prey of cattle. Domhnall, son of Brian, son of Ceinneidigh, son 
of the King of Ireland, died. An army was led by Flaithbheartach 
Ua Xeill to Dun-Eathach ; and he burned the fortress and demol- 
ished the town, and he carried off pledges from Xiall, son of Duljh- 
thuinne. Aedh, son of Mathghamhain, royal heir of Caiseal, died. 
Fealan, son of Dunlaing, lord of ITi-Buidhe, died. 

The Age of Christ 1011 [rede 1012]. The tenth year of Brian. 
A great malady ^^ — namely, lumps and griping — at Ard-Macha from 
Allhallowtide till May, so that a great number of the seniors and 
students died, together with Oeannfaeladh of Sabhall, bishop, 
anchorite, and ^^ilgrim; Maelbrighde Mac-an-Ghobhann, lector of 
Ard-Macha ; and Scolaighe, son of Clercen, a noble priest of Ard- 
Macha. These, and many others along with them, died with this 
sickness. Martin, Abbot of Lnghmhadh ; Cian, successor of Cain- 
neach; Caenchomrac Ua Scannlain, airchinneach of Daimhinis ; 
Maclonain, Abbot of Eos-Cre; and Connmhach Ua Tomhrair, 
priest and chief singer of Cluain-mic-Xois, died. An army was 
led by Flaithbheartach, son of Muircheartach, into Cinel-Conaill, 



in the county of Donegal. The Annals of Ulster record the following events u der this 
year : 

" A.D. 1010 " Irecte, If ll].—" Dunaach in Colum CiU^s in Ardmach ; I laihvertagh O'Cehi- 
nan, Coarb of Tiarnach. cheife bushop and anchorite, killed by Brefnemen in his cwne cit- 
tie. Mureach O'Crichan. Coarb of Colum Gill, and Lector of Ardmach, in Cliristo mor- 
tim^ es'. Flavertach ONell, King of Ailech, Tvith the young men of the Fochla, and 
Murcha Bryan's sonn, with Mounsternmen, Lenster, and the south O'Nells. spoyled Kin- 
dred -Conell, from whence they brought 300 captives with many cowes. Bryan and Mael- 
sechlainn againe in ccmpe at Anaghduiv. 

" Maelruanay O'Donell. King of Kindred-Lugach, killed by the men of ilagh-Itha Aen- 
gus 0"Lapan, King of Kindred-Enci, killed by Kindred Owen of the Band Hugh mac 
!Mathganna, heyre of Cashill, mojiwus est. An army by Flaivertach 0"Nell against mac 
Duvthuinne to Dun-Eehach, burnt the said Dun, broocke the towne, and tooke Nell mac 
Duvthuinne's pledges. 

" \n army by Bryan to Macorainn, and carried with him the King of Kindred-Conell 
close"' [prisoner] "to Cenn-Cora, i. Maelruanai 0"Maeldorai. Delach of Disert-Tolai, 
Coarb of Fechin "' [bona scncctuie], " in CJaisto mortuus est." — " Cod. Clarend.."' tom. 49. 

8® A great malachj. — This passage is translated by Colgan as follows : 

" A.D. 1011. — Ardniacha a festo omnium Sanctorum usque ad initium Mali, magna mor- 
talitate infestatur ; qua, Kennfailadius, de Saballo, Episcopus, Anachoreta et Peiegri- 
nus ; Maslbrigidus Macangobhann, Scholasticus, sen Lector Ardmachanus ; Scolagius, 
filius Clercheni, nobilis Praebyter Ardmachanus, et alii innumeri Seniores et studiosi 
Ardmachaniinterierunt." — " Trias Thaum ,"" p. 298. 



64 The Prose and Poetry of Irelaiid. 

nmil lie amved at Magh-Oedne; ®' lie carried ofE a great prey 
of cows, and returned safe to his house. An army was led 
by Flaithbheartach, son of Muircheartach, a second time into 
Cinel-Conaill, until he reached Druim-Cliabh and Tracht-Eothaile/° 
where Xiall, son of Gillaphadraig, son of Fearghal, was slain, and 
Maelruanaidh Ua Maeldoraidh. was defeated : but no [other] one 
was lost there. An army was led in their absence by Maelseach- 
laiun into Tir-Eoghain, as far as Magh-da-ghabhal,®^ which they 
burned; they preyed as far as Tealach-Oog/' and, haying obtained 
spoils, they returned back to his house. An army was after- 
wards led by Flaithbheartach till lie arrived at Ai'd-Uladh,^^ 
so that the whole of the Ardes was plundered by him : aud he 
bore off from thence spoils the most numerous that a king 
had ever borne, both prisoners and cattle without number. 
A battle was gained over ^iall, son of Dubhtuinne — i.e., the battle 
of the ^lullachs^* — bv Xial. son of Eochaidh, son of Ai'do^har, where 
many were slain, together with Muircheartach, son of Artau, 
Tanist of Ui-Eathacli : and he afterwards deposed Xiall, son of 
Dubhthuinne. Ailell, son of Gebhennach, royal heir of Ti-Maine, 

''■ Magh-Cerlne. — NowMoy, a plain situated between the riyers Erne and Drowes, in the 
south of the county of Donegal. See note m. under a.d. 1301. 

'-^ Tracht-EothaUs — i.e., the strand of Eothaile. now Trawohelly. a great strand near 
BaUysadare, in the county of Sligo. 

^1 Jfagh-da-g/iab7iaL— Plain of the Two Forks. Xot identified. 

^' Tealach-Oog. — Now Tullaghoge. in the barony of Dungannon and county of Tyrone. 

*3 Ard-JJladh. — i.e.. oJ.titudo Ultonim, novr the Ardes. in the east of the county of 
Down. 

^^ The MuRacTis — i.e., the summits. There are many places of this name, but nothing 
has been discovered to fix the site of this battle. 

The Annals of Ulster record the following events under this year : 

'• A.D. 1011. — A certain disease that year at Ardmach, whereof died many. Maelbride 
Macangoran, Ferleginn"" [Lector] "of Ardmach. and Scolal mac < learkean, priest of the 
same, died thereof, and Cenfaela of the Savall. i. chosen ^crdc-frund." "An army by 
Flavertach mac Murtagh. Elng of Allech. upon Eindred-CoDell, untill he came to ^Tacetne. 
from whence he brought a great pray of cowes. and returned saufe again. An army by 
him againe to the Conells as farr as Drumcliav and Tracht-Xeothaile (i. shore of Xeo- 
thailc), and killed "' [Gil] '• Patrick mac Fergaile, sonn of Xell, and broke of ilaelruanai 
0"iIaeldorai, but none killed. An army behind them " [?.*=., in their absence] ■"into Tyrone 
by ilaelsechlainn, and to Madagaval, and burnt the same ; prayed Tullanoog and carried 
them" [the preyes] ■" away. An army yet by Flavertach into Ard-tTla, and spoyled and 
gott the greatest bootyes that ever king had there, both men and chattle, that cannot be 
numbered. Forces by Bryan into ilagh-ilurthevin. that he gave fredom to Patrick's 
churches by that V03 age. A discomfiture of XeU mac Duvthuinae by Xell mac Eochaa, 
where Murtagh mac Artan. heyie of Onehachs, was killed, and mac Eochaa raigned after. 
Caenchorack O'Scanlan. Airchinnech of Daivinis.'" [and] "Macklonan. Airchinnech of 
Roscree, moHu'i sunt. Aengus. Airchinnech of Slane. killed by the heyre ef Duva."' [i.e., 
was killed by the Airchinnech of Dowth]. Crinan mac Gomnlaa, King cf the Conells, 
killed [by Cucuailgne]. — " Cod. Clarend.."" tom. 49. 



Michael GClery, OS.F, 65 

died. Crinan, son of Grormladli, lord of Conaille, was killed by 
Cucuailgne. 

The Age of Christ 1012. The twelfth year of Brian. Mac- 
Maine, 3on of Cosgrach, comliarba of Cill-Dalua^^ [died]. The 
Prior of Saighir Avas killed. Cian Ua Geargain, successor of Cain- 
neach, [and] Dearbhail, daughter of Conghalach, son of Maelmi- 
thigh, [*.e.,] daughter of the King of Ireland, died. Domhnall 
— i.e., the Oat — royal heir of Oonnaught, was killed by Mael- 
ruanaidh Ua Maeldoraidh, and Magh-Aei was totally plundered 
and burned by him, after defeating and slaughtering the Connaught- 
men. A great depredation was committed by Ualgharg Ua 
Ciardha, lord of Cairbre, and the son of Niall O'Ruairc, and the 
men of Feathbha in Glaileanga ; but a few good men of the house- 
hold of Maelseachlainn overtook them, and being at the time in- 
toxicated after drinking, they [imprudently] gave them battle 
through pride. There were slain in it Donnchadh, son of Mael- 
seachlainn ; Dubhtaichligh Ua Maelchallann,^^ lord of Dealbhna 
Beag ; ^^ Donnchadh, son of Donnchadh Finn, royal heir of Team- 
hair ; Cearnachan, son of Flann, lord of Luighne ; Seanan Ua 
Leochain, lord of Gaileanga ; and many others along with them. 
Maelseachlainn afterwards overtook them [with his forces], and the 
spoils were left behind to him ; and Ualgharg Ua Ciardha, lord of 
Cairbre, and many others besides them, were slain. Great forces 
were led by Maelseachlainn into the territory of the foreigners, and 
he burned the country as far as Edar ; ^^ but Sitric and Maelmordha 
overtook one of his preying parties, and slew two hundred of them, 
together with Flann, son of Maelseachlainn, the son of Lorcan, son 
of Echthegern, lord of Cinel-Meachair, and numbers of others^ 
This was the defeat of Draighnen,^^ in commemoration of which 
this quatrain was composed : 



^5 Cill-Dalua — i.e., the Church of St. Lua, Dalua, or Molua, who erected a church here 
about the beginning of the sixth centary; now a^ig'^ece Killaloe, a well-known town, the 
head of an ancient bishop's see, situated on the western bank of the river Shannon, in 
the southeast of the county of Clare. 

•'" 0'' IfadchaUann.— 'No^ anglice MulhoUand, without the prefix O. There were several 
distinct families of this name in Ireland. — See Reeves's " Ecclesiastical Antiquities of 
Down and Connor," etc., pp. 370 to 375. 

^" Bealbhna-Beag . — Now the barony of Fore, or Denoifore, in the northwest of the county 
of Meath. 

^^ ^(f7«r.— Otherwise called Beann-Edair. which is still known throughout Ireland as the 
Irish name of the Hill of Howth, in the county of Dublin. 

^^ Draighnen. — Now Drinan, near Kinsaly, in the county of Dublin. 



66 The Pilose and Poetry of Ireland, 

' ' Not well on ^Monday on the expedition 
Did the Meathmen go to overrun. 
The foreigners, it was heard, were joyful 
Of the journey at the Draighnen." 

Au army was led by Flaithbheartach, lord of Aileach, to 
Maighen-Attaed/"" by the sou of Ceananuus, and Maelseachlainu 
left the liill [undisputed] to liim. Gillamoclionua, son of Foghar- 
tach, lord of South Breagha. j^l^^^^^lerer of the foreigners and 
flood of the glory of the East of Ireland, died. A depredation 
by Murcliadh, son of Brian, in Leinster; he j^lundered the 
country as far as Gleann-da-locha and Cill-Maighneann,"^ and 
burned the whole country and carried off great s2:)oils and innu- 
merable prisoners. A great fleet of the foreigners arriyed in Mun- 
ster, so that they burned Corcach ; but God immediately took yen- 
geance on them for that deed, for Amhlaeibh, son of Sitric — i.e.^ 
the son of the lord of the foreigners — and Mathghamhain, son of 
Dubhghall, and many others, were slain by Cathal, son of Domhnall, 
son of Dubhdabhoireann. Muircheartach, son of Aedh O'Xeill, was 
slain by the Dal-Eiada, with a number of others along with him. 
A great war between the foreigners and the Gaeidhil. An army 
was led by Brian to Ath-an-chairthinn/°^ and he there encamped and. 
laid siege to the foreigners for three months. Many fortresses were 
erected by Brian, namely, Cathair-Cinn-coradh,"^ Inis-Gaill-duibh,'"* 
and Inis-Locha-Saighleann [etc.] The Leinstermen and foreigners 
were at war with Brian; and Brian encamped at Sliabh Mairge to 
defend Munster, and Leinster was plundered by him as far as Ath- 
cliath. A great depredation upon the Conailli by Maelseachlainu, 
in reyenge of the profanation of the Finnfaidheach and of the 
breaking of Patrick's crosier by the Conailli — i.e., by the sons of 
Cucuailgne, 

The Age of Christ 1013 \_recte 1011]. Ronan, successor of 
Fechin ; Flaithbheartach, son of Domhnall — i.e., of the Clann-Col- 
main — successor of Ciaran and Finnen ; and Conn Ua Duigraidh, 

"° Maighen-Attaed—i.e., Attaedli"s littJe Plain. This -n-ould be anglicized Moynatty, but 
the name is obsolete. 

1"' cm Maiglineana. — Now KiLmainham, near Dublin. 

J "2 Ath-an-chairthinn—i.e., Ford of the Rock. Situation unknown. 

i03 Cathair-Cinn-coradh—i.e.. the fctone Fort of Kincora at Killaloe. 

10* Inu-GaiU-duibJi—i.e.. the Island of the Black Foreigner. It is stated in the Dublin 
copy of the Annals of Innisfallen. at the year 1016. that this was the name of an island 
in the Shannon, but it has not been yet identified. It was probably another name for the 
Sing's Island at Limerick. 



Michael GCLery^ O.S.F, 6j 

successor of Caeimlighin, died. Cairbre Fial/"^ son of Oatlial, anclio- 
rite of Gleann-da-locha, [and] Naemlian Ua Seincliinn, died ; these 
were both anchorites. Dunlang, son of Tuathal^ King of Leinster, 
died. Cairbre, son of Cleirchen/"' lord of Ui Fidhgeinte, was treach- 
eronsly slain by Maelcolnim Caenraigheach."' A battle between the 
Ui-Eathach"^ themselves — i.e., between Cian, son of Maelmhuaidh,"^ 
and Domhnall, son of Dubh-da-bhoireann ^'^ — in which were slain 
Cian, Oathal, and Roghallach, three sons of Maelmhuaidh, with a 
great slaughter along with them. An army was led by Donnchadh, 
son of Brian, to the South of Ireland ; and he slew Cathal, son of 
Domhnall, and carried off hostages from Domhnall. An army was 
led by the foreigners and Leinstermen into Meath, and afterwards 
into Breagha ; and they plundered Tearmonn-Fichine/^^ and 
carried oif many captives and countless cattle. An army was 
led by Brian, son of Ceinneidigh, son of Lorcan, King of 
Ireland, and by Maelseachlainn, son of Domhnall, King of 
Teamhair, to Ath-cliath. The foreigners of the West of Europe 
assembled against Brian and Maelseachlainn, and they took with 
them ten hundred men with coats of mail. A spirited, fierce, vio- 
lent, vengeful, and furious battle was fought between them, the 
likeness of which was not to be found in that time, at Cluaintarbh,^^^ 
on the Friday before Easter precisely. In this battle were slain 

^"s Cairtre Mai— i.e., Carbry the Hospitable or Munificent. 

i°* Cleirc/ien.—'H.e was the ancestor of the family of O'Cleirchen, now pronounced in 
Irish O'Cleireachain, and anglicized Cleary and Clarke, a name still extant in the county 
of Limerick. 

*"'' Maelcoluim CaenraigJieach—i.e.., Malcolm of Kenry, now a barony in the north of the 
county of Limerick. 

108 The Ui Eathach.— This was the tribe name of the O'Mahonys and O'Donohoes of 
South Munf5ter. 

^"^ Cian, son of Jfadmhuaidh — i.e., Kean, son of Molloy. He is the ancestor of the family 
of O'Mahony. 

11° Domhnall, son of Dubh-da-ihoirean?i — i.e., Donnell, or Daniel, son of Duv-Davoran. He 
was the ancestor of the O'Donohoes. Both these chieftains fought at the battle of Clon- 
tarf, and the Four Masters have therefore misplaced this entry. 

Ill Tearmonn Feichine—i.e., asylum Sancti Fechini, the Termon, or Sanctuary, of St. 
Feichin, now Termonfeckin, in the barony of Ferard and county of Louth. — See Ussher's 
"Primordia," p. 966 ; and ArchdaU's 'Monas. Hib.,"' p. 491. 

i'2 Cluain-tarhh —i.e., the Plain. Lawn, or Meadows of the Bulls, nowClontarf, near the 
city of Dublin. In Dr. 0'Conor"s edition this is headed, '• Cath Coradh Cluanatarbh," 
which is translated •' P roelium Jleroicum Cluantarhhia,"' but it simply means '■ Battle of the 
Fishing Weir of Cluain-tarbh.'" The Danes were better armed in this battle than the 
Irish, for they had one thousand men dressed in armor from head to foot. In a dialogue 
"between the Banshee OeibhiU, or Oeibhinn, of Craglea, and the hero, Kineth O'Hartagan, 
the former is represented as advising the latter to shun the battle, as the Gaeidhil were 
dressed only in satin shirts, while the Danes were in one mass of iron. 



68 The Prose and Poehy of Ireland. 

Brian, son of Ceinneidigli, monarch of Ireland, who was the Augus- 
tus of all the West of Europe, in the eighty-eighth year of his age ;"* 
Murchadh, son of Brian, heir apparent to the sovereignly of Ire- 
land, in the sixty -third "" year of his age ; Conaing, son of Donncuan, 
the son of Brian's brother; Toirdhealbhach, son of Murchadh,''^ son 
of Brian ; ]\Iothla, son of Domhnall, son of Faelan/^^ lord of the Deisi- 
Mumhan ; Eocha, son of Dunadhach — ^.e., chief of Clann-Scann- 
lain ; Nial Ua Ouinn ; "^ Cuduiligh, son of Ceinneidigli, the three 
companions''^ of Brian; Tadhg Ua Ceallaigh,"^ lord of Ui-Maine; 
Maelruanaidh na Paidre Ua h Eidhin,'^''lord of Aidhne ; Geibhean- 



^13 In the eighty -eighth year of his age, — This is also stated to have been Brian's age in the 
Annals of Clonmacnoise. as well as the Annals of Innisfallen, and other accounts of this 
battle. But the Annals of Ulster state that Brian was born in the year 941, according to 
•which he was in the seventy-third year of his age ■^vhen he -was slain, and this seems 
correct.— See Colgan"s " Acta Sanctorum, "" p. 106, note 3 ; and ■" Ogygia,"' p. 435. 

114 Sixty-third . — This should probably be fifty-third, or. perhaps, forty-third. The eldest 
son of Murchadh was fifteen years old at this time, according to the Annals of Clonmac- 
noise. This looks very like the truth ; the grandson was fifteen, the eldest son forty- 
three, and Brian himself seventy-three. 

11" Toirdhealbhach, son of Murchadh. — " Terrence, the king's grandchild, then but of tho 
age of 15 years, was found drouned neer the fishing weare of Clontarfe, with both his 
hands fast bound in the hair of a Dane's head, whom he pursued to the sea at the time 
of the flight of the Danes."" — Ann. Clon. 

11® Faelan. — He was the progenitor after whom the 0"Fae]ains, or 0"Phelans, of the De- 
sies, took their hereditary surname. This Mothla was the first who was called O'Faelain, 
i.e., JVepos Foilani. 

11^ Niall Zfa Cuinn. — He is the ancestor of the 0"Quins of Muintir-Iflernain, a distin- 
guished sept of the Dal-g-Cais, who were originally seated at Inchiquin and Corofin, in 
the county of Clare. The Earl of Dunraven is tho p esent head of this family. 

118 Three Companions. — In ]5tIageoghegan"s translation of the Annals of Clonmacnoise, 
these are called "three noblemen of the king"s bed-chamber." In the translation of the 
Dublin copy of the Annals of Innisfallen they are called "Brian's three companions or 
aides-de-camp."' 

119 Tadhg O'Ceallaig— i.e., Teige. Thaddaeus, or Timothy 0"KeUy. From him all the 
septs of the 0"Kellys of Hy-Many are descended. According to a wild tradition among 
the O'Kellys of this race, after the fall of their ancestor, Teige !Mor, in the battle of 
Clontarf, a certain animal like a dog (ever since used in the crest of the 0"Kellys of Hy- 
Many) issued from the sea to protect the body from the Danes, and remained guarding it 
till it was carried away by the Ci-Maine. — See " Tribes and Customs of Hy-Many,"" p. 99. 

'J here is a very curious poem relating to this chieftain in a fragment of the Book of Hy- 
Many. now preserved in a manuscript in the British Museum. Egerton. 90. It gives a list 
of the sub-chiefs of Hy-Many who were contemporary with Tadhg Mor O'Ceallaigh, who 
is therein stated to have been the principal hero in the battle next after Brian, and it 
adds that he dirt more to break down the power of the Danes than Brian himself. Ac- 
cording to the tradition in the country, the Connaughtmen were dreadfully slaughtered 
in this battle, and very few of the 0"Kellys or 0"Heynes survived it. 

120 Maelruanaidh na Paidri 0''h Eidhin — i.e., Mulrony G'Heyne of the Prayer. He was 
the first person ever called 0"Heidhin, as being the grandson of Eidhin, the progenitor 
of the family, brother Maelfabhaill, from whence the 0"Heynes. now Heynes, chiefs of 
Hy-Fiachrach- Aidhne. in the county of Galway, are descended.— See " Genealogies,, 
etc., of Hy-Fiachrach."" p. 398. 



Michael OClery^ 0,S,F. 69 

nacli, son of Dnbliagan/"' lord of Feara-Maiglie ; Mac-Beatha/^'' son 
of Muireadhach-Claen^ lord of Oiarraiglie-Luaclira ; Domlmall, son of 
Diarmaid/^^ lord of Oorca-Bliaiscinn ; Scannlan, son of Catlial/'^* lord 
of Eoghanaclit-Loclia Lein ; and Domlmall, son of Eimliin/" son of 
Cainneacli, great steward of Mair in Alba. The forces were after- 
wards routed by dint of battling, bravery, and striking by Mael- 
seachlainn/^^ from Tulcainn ^" to Ath-cliatli, against the foreigners 

121 Duhhagan, — He was descended from the Druid Mogh Roth, and from Cuanna Mac 
Gailchine, commonly called Laech Liathmhuine. From this Dubhagan descends the family 
of the Ui Dubhagain, now Duggan, formerly chiefs of Fermcy, in the county of Cork, of 
whom the principal branch is now represented by the Cronins of Park, near Killarney, in 
the county of Kerry, who are paternally descended from the O'Dubhagains of Fermoy. 

122 Mac Beat] la., son of Muirtadhach Claen. — He was evidently the ancestor of O'Conor 
Kerry, though in the pedigrees the only Mac Beathato be found is made Mac Beatha, son of 
Conchobhar, but it should clearly be Mac Beatha, son of Muireadhach Claen, son of Con- 
chobhar, the progenitor from whom the O'Conors Kerry derive their hereditary surname. 

Daniel O'Connell O'Connor Kerry of the Austrian service is one of the representatives 
of this family. The following are also of the O'Connor Kerry sept : Daniel Connor, Esq., 
of Manche, in the county of Cork ; Feargus O'Connor, Esq., M.P., who is son of the late 
Roger O'Connor Kierrie, Esq., of Dangan Castle, author of the "Chronicles of Eri " ; 
Daniel Conner, Esq., of Ballybriton ; and William Conner, Esq., of Mitchels, Bandon, 
oounty of Cork ; also William Conner, Esq., late of Inch, near Athy, in the Queen's 
County, author of '• The True Political Economy of Ireland," etc., who is the son of the 
celebrated Arthur Coodorcet O'Connor, General of DivisioninFrance, now living, in the 
eighty-sixth year of his age; who is ihe son of Roger Conner, Esq., of Connerville; son of 
William Conner, Esq., of Connerville; son of Mr. Daniel Connor, of Swithin's Alley, Tem- 
ple Bar, London, merchant, and afterwards of Eandon, in the county of Cork; son of Sir. 
Cornelius Conner, of Cork, whose will is dated 1719 ; son of Daniel Conner ; who was the 
relative of O'Connor Kerry. This Cork branch descends from Philip Conner, merchant, 
of London, to whom his relative, John O'Connor Kerry, conveyed Asdee by deed, dated 
August, ir.98. 

^23 Bomhnall^ so)i of Biarmaid. — This Domhnall was the progenitor of the family of 
O'Domhnaill, O'Donnell, of East Corca Bhaiscinn, liow the barony of Clonderalaw, in the 
present county of Clare. According to Dual mac Firbis's genealogical work, a Bishop 
Conor O'Donnell, of Raphoe, was the nineteenth in descent from this Domhnall. The 
editor does not know of any member of this family. The O'Donnels of Limerick and 
Tipperary, of whom Colonel Sir Charles O'Donnelis the present head, are descended from 
Shane Luirg, one of the sons of Turlough of the Wine O'Donnell, Prince of Tirconnell in 
the beginning of the fifteenth century. 

12* /Scanrdati, son of Cathal. — He was the ancestor of the family of O'Cearbhaill, who had 
been lords or chieftains of Eoghanacht Locha-Lein before the 0"Donohoes, a branch of 
the Ui-Eathach Munnhan, dispossessed them. 

125 Domhncdl, aonof Eimhin.—B.Qyf&s chief of the Eoghanachts of Magh Geirrginn, or 
Marr, in Scotland, and descended from Maine Leamhna (the brother of Cairbre Luachra, 
ancestor of the O'Moriartys of Kerry), son of Core, son of Lughaidh, son of Oilioll 
Flannbeg, son of Fiacha Muilleathan, son of Eoghan Mor, son of Oilioll Olum, King of 
Munster, and common ancestor of King Brian and of this Domhnall of Marr, who as- 
sisted him against the common enemy. — See O'Slaherty's " Ogygia," part iii c 81. 

126 By Maelseachlainn. — This fact is suppressed in all the Munster accounts of this 
action, which state that Maelseachlainn did not take any part in the battle. The Mun- 
ster writers, and among others Keating, introduce Maelseachlainn as giving a ludicrous 
account of the terrors of the battle, in which he is made to sav that he did not join either 
;side, being paralyzed with fear by the horrific scenes of slaughter passing before his eyes. 

i*'' TWmmn^.— Now the Tolka, a smaU river which flows through the village of Finglas, 



7o The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

and the Leinstermen ; and there fell Maelmordha/" son of Murchadh, 
son of Finn, King of Leinster ; the son of Brogarbhan, son of Con- 
chobhar/" Tanist of Ui-Failghe ; and Tuathal, son of Ugaire,"" royal 
heir of Leinster ; and a countless slaughter of the Leinstermen 
along with them. There were also slain Dubhghall, son of Amh- 
laeibh, and Gillaciarain, son of Gluniairn, two Tanists of the foreign- 
ers ; Sechfrith, son of Loder, Earl of Innsih Orc;'^' Brodar, chief of 
the Danes of Denmark, who was the person that slew Brian. The 
ten hundred in armor "^ were cut to pieces, and at the least three 
thousand of the foreigners were there slain. It was of the death of 
Brian and of this battle the [following] quatrain was composed : 

" Thirteen years, one thousand complete, 
Since Christ was born, not long since the date, 
Of prosperous years — accurate the enumeration — 
Until the foreigners were slaughtered together with Brian." 

Maelmuire, son of Eochaidh, successor of Patrick, proceeded with 

and, passing under Ballybough Bridge and Annesley Bridge, unites with the sea near 
Clontarf. 

128 ^Tadmordha. — He was not the ancestor of the Mac Morroughs, or Kafanaghs, as 
generally supposed, but was the father of Bran, the progenitor after whom the Ui Broin, 
or O'Byrnes, of Leinster have taken their hereditary surname. 

129 TJie son of Brogar'bhan, son of ConcJwbhar. — This should be Brogarbhan, son of Con- 
ohobhar. He is the ancestor of O'Conor Faly. 

130 Tuathal, son of Ugaire.— This is a mistake, because Tuathal, son of Ugaire, died in 
956. It should be, as in the Annals of Innisf alien, mac Tuathail— z.e., "the son Tuthal, son. 
of Ugaire," or " Dunlaing, son of Tuatha], son of Ugaire." This Tuathal was the progeni- 
tor after whom the Ui-Tuathail or O'Tooles, of Ui-Muireadhaigh, Ui Mail, and Feara-Cua- 
lann, in Leinster, took their hereditary surname. 

131 Itisi-h Ore— i.e. ^ the Orcades, or Orkney Islands, on the north of Scotland. 

132 Tlie ten hundred in a7vnor,-'hi the Niala Saga, published in Johnston's "Ant. Celto- 
Scand," a Norse prince is introduced as asking, some time after this battle, what had be- 
come of his men. and the answer was that "they were all killed." 

This seems to allude to the division in coats of mail, and is sufficient to prove that the 
Irish had gained a real and great victory. According to the Cath-Chluana-tarbh, and 
the account of the battle inserted in the Dublin copy of the Annals of Innisf alien, thirteen 
thousand Danes and three thousand Leinstermen were slain ; but that this is an exagge- 
ration of modern popular writers will appear from the authentic Irish annals. 

The Annals of Ulster state that seven thousand of the Danes perished by field and 
flood. The Annals of Boyle, which are very ancient, make the number of Danes slain the 
one thousand who were dressed in coats of mail and three thousand others. The pro- 
bability is, therefore, that the Annals of Ulster include the Leinstermen in their sum 
total of the slain on the Danish side, and in this sense there is no discrepancy between 
them and the Annals of Boyle, which count the loss of the Danes only. In the Chronicle 
of Ademar, monk of St. Eparchius of Angouleme, it is stated that this battle lasted for 
three days, that all the Norsemen were killed, and that crowds of their women in despair 
threw themselves into the sea ; but the Irish accounts agree that it lasted only from sun- 
rise to sunset on Good Friday. 



Michael aClery, O.S.F, 71 

the seniors and relics to Sord-Choluim-Ohille ; '" and they carried 
from thence the body of Brian, King of Ireland, and the body of 
Murchadh, his son, and the head of Conaing, and the head of 
Mothla. Maelmuire and his clergy waked the bodies with great 

13' Sord-Choluim-ChiUe. — Now Swords, in the county of Dublin. Ware says that, accord- 
ing to some, the bodies of Brian and his son. Murchadh, as well as those of O'Kelly, 
Doulan 0"Hartegan, and Gilla-Barred, were buried at Kilmainham, a mile from Dublin, 
near the old stone cross. — See Dublin P. Journal, vol. i. p. 68. 

The most circumstantial account of the battle of Clontarf accessible to the editor is 
that given in the '" Cath Chluanatarbh," from which, and from other romantic accounts 
of this great battle, a copious description has been given in the Dublin copy of the Annals 
of InnisfaUen, compiled by Dr. O Brien and John Conry ; but it has been too much am- 
plified and modernized to be received as an authority. It also gives the names of chiefs 
as fighting on the side of Brian, who were not in the battle, as Tadhg 0"Conor, son of 
Cathal,King of Connaught; Maguire, Prince of Fermanagh, etc. These falsifications, so 
unworthy of Dr. O'Brien, have been given by Mr. Moore as true history, which very much 
disfigures his otherwise excellent account of this important event. It is stated in the 
Annals of Clonmacnoise that ■' the O'Xeals forsooke King Brian in this battle, and so did 
all Connaught, except"' [Hugh, the son of] ■Ferall ORourke and Teige O'Kelly. The 
Leinstermen did not only forsake him, but were the first that opposed themselves against 
him of the Danes" side, only 0"Morrey " [O'Mordha or O'More] " and O'NoUan excepted."' 
The following chiefs are mentioned in tho account of the battle of Clontarf in the Dub- 
lin copy of the Annals of InnisfaUen as fighting in the second division of Brian's army, 
viz. : Cian, son of Maelmuaidh, son of Bran (ancestor of O'Mahoney), and Domhnall, 
son of Dubhdabhoireann (ancestor of O'Donohoe), who took the chief command of the 
forces of the race Eoghan Mor ; Mothla, son of Faelan, King of the Desies ; Muir- 
Cheartach, son of Amnchadh, chief of the Ui-Liathain ; Scannlan, son of Cathal. chief 
of Loch-Lein ; Loingseach, son of Lunlaing, chief of Ui-Conaill- Gabhra ; Cathal, son of 
Donnabhan, chief of Cairbre Aebhdha ; Mac Beatha, son of Muireadhach, chief of Ciar- 
raigh-Laiachra; Geibheannach, son of Dubhagan, chief of Feara-Maighe-Feine ; O'Cearb- 
haill. King of Eile; another O'Cearbhaill. King of Oirghialla, and MagUidhir, King of 
Feara-Mahach. This account omits some curious legendary touches respecting Oebhinn 
(now Aoibhill) of Craigliath (Craglea, near Killaloe), theLeanan Sidhe, or familiar sprite, 
of Dal-g Cais, which are given in the romantic story called '• Cath-Chluanatarbh,"" as well 
as in some Munster copies of the Annals of InnisfaUen. and in the Annals of Kilronan, 
and also in some ancient accounts of the battie in various manuscripts in the library of 
Trinity College. Dublin. It is said that this banshee enveloped in a magical cloud Dun- 
laing O'Hartagain (a, chief hero attendant on Murchadh, Brian's eldest son), to prevent 
him from joining the battle. But O'Hartagain, nevertheless, made his way to Murchadh, 
who, on reproaching him for his delay, was informed that Oebhinn was the cause. 
Whereupon O'Hartagain conducted Murchadh to whe^e she was, and a conversation 
ensued in which she predicted the fall of Brian, as weU as of Murchadh, O'Hartigain, 
and other chief men of their army : 

" Murchadh shall faU ; Brian shall fall ; 
Ye aU shall f aU in one Utter ; 
This plain shall be red to-morrow with thy proud blood ! " 

Mr. Moore, who dwells with particular interest on this battle, and who describes it weU, 
notwithstanding some mistakes into which he has been led by Dr. C Conor's mistransla- 
tions, has the following remarks on the Irish and Norse accounts of it in his *• History 
of Ireland " : " It would seem a reproach to the bards of Brian's day to suppose that an 
event so proudly national as his victory, so full of appeals, as weU to the heart as to the 
imagination, should have been suffered to pass unsung. And yet, though some poems in 
the native language are stiU extant, supposed to have been written by an oUamb. or 
doctor, attached to the court of Brian, and describing the solitude of the haUs of Kid- 



72 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

honor and veneration, and they were interred at Ard-Macha in a 
new tomb. 

A battle between the two sons of Brian — i.e.^ Donnchadh and 
Tadlig. Donnchadh was defeated, and Eiiaidhri Ua Donnagain, 
lord of Aradh, and many others along with him, fell in the battle. 

cora after the death of their royal master, there appears to be in none of these ancient 
poems an aliusion to the inspiriting theme of Clontarf . By the bards of the north, 
however, that field of death, and the name of its veteran victor, Brian, were not so 
lightly forgotten. 

"Traditions of the dreams and portentous appearances that preceded the battle 
formed one of the mournful themes of Scaldic song ; and a Norse ode of this description 
which has been made familiar to English readers breathes, both in its feeling and ima- 
gery, all that gloomy wildness which might be expected from an imagination darkened by 
defeat."— Vol. ii. pp. 128, 129. This battle is the theme of an Icelandic poem, translated 
by the English poet, Gray, "The Fatal Sisters."— See Johnston's " Antiquitates Celto- 
Scandicae," Hafn , 1786. 

The Annals of CTlster give the following events under this year : 

" A.D. 1013 " \al. 1014]. — '■'■Hie est annus octavus circuli Decimnavenalis et hie est 582 annus ah 
adventu Sancti Patricii ad haptizandos Scotos. St. Gregorie's feast at Shrovetide, and the 
Sunday next after Easter, in summer this yeare, guod non auditum est ah antiquis tempori- 
7>us. An army by Bryan, mac Cinnedy, mic Lorkan, King of Ireland, and by Maelsech- 
lainn mac Donell, King of Tarach, to Dublin. Lenster great and small gathered before 
them, together with the Galls of Dublin, and so many of the Gentiles of Denmark, and 
fought a courageous battle between them, the like [of which] was not scene. 

" Gentiles and Lenster dispersed first altogether, in which battle fell of the adverse 
part of the Galls ■" [in quo bello cecederunt ex adversa caterva Gallorum], " Maelmoramac Mur- 
cha, King of Leinster ; Donell mac Perall " [recte, Donell O'Perall, of the race of Finn- 
chadh Mac Garchon], " King of the Fortuaths, i. outward parts of Leinster; and of the 
Galls were slaine Duvgall mac Aulair, Sinchrai mac Lodar, Earle of Innsi Hork ; Gilky- 
aran mac Gluniarn, heyre of Galls ; Ofrtir Duv; Suartgar ; Duncha O'Herailv ; Grisene, 
Luimni, and Aulaiv mac Lagmainn ; and Brodar, who killed Bryan, i. cheife of the Den- 
mark navy, and 7,000 between killing amd drowning ; and, in greveing the battle, there 
were lost of the Irish, Bryan mac Kennedy (Archking of Ireland, of Galls and Welsh, the 
Cesar of the northwest of Europe all) ; and his sonn, Murcha, and his grandsonn, Tir- 
lagh mac Murcha, and C onaing, mac Duncuan, mic Cinedy heyre of ^^'ounster ; Mothla, 
mac Donell, mic Faelain, King of Dessyes, in Mounster; Eochaa mac Dunaai, Nell 
O'Cuinn, and" [Cudniligh] "mac Kinnedy, Bryan's three bedfellowes ; the two Kings 
of O'Mani, O'KeUi, and Maelrucinai O'Heyn, King of Aignc ; and Gevinach O'Duvagan, 
King of Fermai ; Magveha mac Muireaiklyn, King of Kerry Luochra ; Daniell mac Der- 
mada. King of Corcabascin ; Scannlan, mac Cahas, King of Eoganacht Lochlen ; Donell 
mac Evin, mic Cainni, a great murmor in Scotland " [recte Morrmoer of Marr, in Scotland], 
" and many more nobles. Maelmuire mac Eocha, Patrick's Coarb, wenfcto Lord Colum 
CJIl, with learned men and reliques in his company, and brought from thence the body of 
Bryan, the body of Murcha, his sonn, the heads of Conaing and Mothla, and buried them' 
in Ardmach, in a new tombe. Twelve nights were the people and reliques " [i^ecie, clergy] 
" of Patrick at the wake cf the bodyes, propter honorem Ecgis peniti. Dunlaing mac Tuo- 
hall. King of Leinster, died. A battle between Kyan mac Maeilmuai and Doneil mac Du- 
vaavorenn, where Kyan, Cahell, and RagaUach, three sonns of Maelmuni, were killed. 
Telge mac Bryan put Dunch mac Bryan to flight, where Roary O'Dcnnagan, King of Ara, 
was slaine. An armyby O'Maeldorai and O'RoyrkintoMaghNaii, where they killed Donell 
macCahall,andspoyledtheMagh" [i.e., theMaghery, of plainof Conuaught], " andcaryed 
their captives ; licet non in eaden mce. Dalriarai dispersed by Ulster, where many were 
killed. Flavertach mac Donell, Coarb of Kyaran and Finnen ; and Ronan, Coarb of Fech- 
in ; and Oonn O'Digrai, in Christo dormierunt. The annals of this year are many."—" Cod. 
Clarend , ' torn 49. 



Michael GClery, O.S.F, J2> 

An army was led by Ua Maeldoraiclh and O'Enairc into Magli Aei, 
and they slew Domhnall, son of Catlial, and plnndered the plain, 
and carried off the hostages of Connanght. 

THIRD SELECTION— VOL. V., PP. 1825 TO 1843. 

The Age of Christ 1585. The Earl of Kildare died in England, 
namely, Garrett, the son of Garrett, son of Garrett, son of Thomas, 
son of John Cam. This earl had been five years under arrest, kept 
from his patrimonial inheritance, until he died at this time. Henry 
his son was appointed his successor by the English Council. Henry 
was then permitted to go westwards^^Ho his patrimonial inheritance. 

Mac William Burke (Eichard, the son of Oliver, son of John) 
died, and no person was elected his successor ; but the Blind Abbot 
held his place, as he thought, in spite of the English. Gormly, the 
daughter of O'Eourke — i.e., of Brian, son of Owen^^^ — a woman who 
had spent her life with husbands worthy of her, a |)rosperous and 
serene woman, who had never merited blame or censure from the 
Church or tlie literati, or any reproach on account of her hospita- 
lity or name,^^^ died. Brian, son of Teige, son of Brian, son of 
Owen O'Eourke, made an incursion into Dartry Mac Clancy in the 
very beginning of the month of January, and despatched marau- 
ding squadrons through the fastnesses of Dartry to collect preys, 
and they obtained great spoils. Mac Clancy, with a numerous 
body of Scots and Irishmen, pursued and overtook them. Brian 
proceeded to resist them, and they continued fighting and skir- 
mishing with each other as they went along, until they came face 
to face at Beanna-bo,^" in Breifny. 

When the men of Breifny and O'Eourke's people heard that Brian 
had gone to Dartry, they assembled together to meet him at a cer- 
tain narrow pass by which they thought^^^ he Avould come on to 
them. They perceived him approaching at a slow pace and with 
great haughtiness, sustaining the attacks of his enemies ; and 

*^* To go westwards — i.e., to returil to Ireland. 

'35 Son of Owen— ChsLvles O'Conor of Belanagare adds that she was the daughter of 
Brian Ballagh, son of Owen, son of Tiernan, son of Teige O Rourke. 

'^s Name— i.e., her fame for goodness. 

^3" Bearna-bo—i.e., the Peaks of the Cows, now Benbo, a remarkable mountain near the 
parish of Drumleas, barony of Dromahaire, and county of Lietrim, extending from near 
Manor Hamilton in the direction of Sligo for about three miles. According to the tradi- 
tion in the country, this mountain is pregnant with gold mines. 

= 38 They thought . — This should be. They knew. 



74 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

although [they, as] his own time followers/" should have succored 
him [on such an emergency], it was not so that they acted, but 
they gave their day's support^" in battle to his enemies, so that the 
lieroic soldier was attacked on both sides. He was met by shouts 
before and behind, [and] he was so surrounded on every side that 
he could not move backwards or forwards. In this conflict many 
men were slain around him, and [among the rest] was cut off a 
company of gallowglasses of the Mac Sheehys, who were the surviv- 
ing remnant and remains of the slaughter of the gallowglasses of 
the Geraldines, who were along with Brian on that day, and who 
had gone about from territory to territory offering themselves for 
hire after the extermination of the noblemen by whom they had 
been employed previously; and they would not have been thus cut 
off had they not been attacked by too many hands and overwhelmed 
bj numbers. 

The men of Breifny and O'Rourke's joeo^Dle gave protection to 
Brian in this perilous situation, and carried him off under their 
protection to be guarded. On the third day afterwards [however], 
they came to the resolution of malevolently and maliciously putting 
him to death, he being under their clemency and their protection. 
O'Eourke was accused^^^ of participating in this unbecoming deed. 

Edmund Dorcha [the Dark], the son of Donnell, son of Mur- 
rotigh, son of Eoiy More, and Turlough, the son of Edmund Oge, 
son of Edmund, son of Turlough Mac Sheehy, were both executed 
at Dublin. There was much rain this year, so that the greater 
part of the corn in Ireland was destroyed. 

Dermot, the son of Donnell Mag Congair*^ (Mac Goingle), died 
on the 14th of June. 

A proclamation of Parliament "^ was issued to the men of Ire- 
land, com.manding their chiefs to assemble in Dublin precisely on 

138 His men true follcnjcers— i.e. ^ these were his own followers who posted themselves in 
the narrow pass to intercept his retreat. It looks strange that the Four Masters shovild 
not have toid us why his own followers should have acted thus : but we may conjecture 
that they did so by order of O'Eourke, who, havirg submitted to the Government this 
year, did not wish that Brian should thus violate the law. See " Chor ©graphical Descrip- 
tion of lar-Connaught,*' edited by Mr. Hardiman, p 346. 

1^° Their day's sujjjjort.— This is a commou Irish phrase. 

1*1 Was accused. — Literally, '"A bad share of this evil deed was ascribed to O'Rourke." 

I-*- 3fag-CongaU — Now anglice Magonigle, a name stiU common in the south of the county 
of Donegal. 

^*3 Parliament. — For some curious notices of the Parliaments held in Elizabeth's reign, 
the reader is referred to Hardimans edition of the ''Statute of Eolkenny," Introduction, 
p. xiii. et seq. 



Michael O'Clery, OS.F. 75 

May-day/** for the greater part of the people of Ireland were at 
this time obedient to their sovereign; and accordingly they all at 
that summons did meet in Dublin face to face. Thither came the 
chiefs of Kinel-Connell '^^ and Kinel-Owen — namely, O'Neill 
(Turlough Luineach/"^ the son of Niall Conallagh, son of Art, son 
of Con, son of Henry, son of Owen), and Hugh, the son of 
Ferdoragh, son of Con Bacagh, son of Cou, son of Henry, son of 
Owen — i.e., the young Baron O'Neill, who obtained the title of 
Earl of Tyrone at this Parliament ; and O'Donnell (Hugh Eoe, the 
son of Manus,^*^ son of Hugh Duv, son of Hugh Eoe, son of Niall 
Garv, son of Turlough of the Wine) ; Maguire ''^ (Ouconnaught, 

"^^^ Precisely on May-day. — This Parliament assembled at Dublin on the 26th of April, 
1585, according to the original record of it preserved in the Rolls' Office, Dublin. See Ap- 
pendix to the " statute of Kilkenny," p. ]39. 

"^^^ Kinel-Connell. — It looks very strange that the Four Masters should mention Kinell- 
Connell first in order, as O'Donnell was not acknowledged as a member of this Parlia- 
ment. See lists of the " Lords, spirituall and temporall, etc., etc., as were summoned into 
Parliament holden before the Right Honorable Sir John Perrot, Knyght, Lord Dcputie- 
Generall of the realme of Ireland, xxvi° die Aprilis, anno regni Regine nostre Elizabeth 
vicesimo septimo," printed in the third Appendix to Haidiman's edition of the " Statute 
of Kilkenny, "p. 139. 

145 Turlough Lvineach. — He came to Dublin to attend this Parliament, but it does not 
appear that he took his seat, as his name is not in the official list. It appears, by patent 
to Elizabeth, that the queen intended to create him Earl of Clan O'Neill and Baron of 
Clogher, but the patent was never perfected. His rival, Hugh, son of Ferdoragh, is en- 
tered twice in this list, once as Lord of Dunganyne, and again as Earl of Tyrone. This 
latter title was evidently interlined after his claim had been r.llowed by this Parliament. 
The first title should have been cancelled after the interlining of the higher title. Tur- 
lough Luineach is supposed by our historians to have sat in this Parliament, but they 
have not told us in what capacity. It is stated in " Perrott's Life " that it was the pride 
of Perrott that he could prevail on the old Irish leaders, not only to exchange their 
savage (?) state for the condition of English subjects, but to appear publicly in the Eng- 
lish garb, and to make some effort to accommodate themselves to the manners of his 
court, but that it was not without the utmost reluctance and confusion that they thus 
appeared to resign their ancient manners. That Turlough Luineach in his old age, en- 
cumbered with his fashionable habiliments, expressed his discontent with a good-humored 
simplicity : " Prithee, my lord," said he, " let my chaplain attend me in his Irish mantle ; 
thus shall your English rabble be diverted from my uncouth figure and laugh at him " 
Sir Richard Cox, who embraced every oppo:tunity of tradacing the Irish, asserts that 
"the Irish Lords were obliged to wear robes, and, the better to induce them to it, the 
Deputy bestowed robes on Turlough Lynogh and other principal men of the Irish, which 
they embraced like fetters." The representatives of these chieftains, Turlough aud 
Hugh, are now unknown, but there are various persons of the name Mac Baron, now in 
hunble circumstances, in the county of Tyrone, who claim descent from Cormac mac 
Baron, the brother of Hugh, Earl of Tyrone. 

"■^ Hugh Roe, the son of Manus —He became chief of Tirconnell on Ihe death of his elder 
brother, Calvagh, in 1566. The race of this Hugh have been long extmct. The O'Doi.neUs 
of Castlebar, in Ireland, and the more illustrious O'Donnells of Austria and Spain, are 
descended from his eldest brother, Calvagh. 

1^8 Maguire. — The chieftain of Fermanagh did not attend as a member of this Parlia- 
ment. This Cuconnaught was the ancestor of the late Constantino Maguire. Esq., of 
Tempo. 



/6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

the son of Cuconnauglit, son of Brian/" son of Philip, son of 
Thomas) ; O'Doherty (John Oge, the son of John, son of FeUm, 
SOD of Conor Carragh) ; O'Boyle'^" (Tnrlongh, the son of Xiall, 
son of Tnrlough Oge, son of Turlough More) ; and O'Gallagher ^^^ 
(Owen, the son of Tnathal, son of John, son of Rory, son of Hugh). 
To this assembly also repaired Mac Mahon ^^^ (Eoss, the son of Art, 
son of Brian of the Early Rising, son of Redmond, son of Glas- 
ney) ; O'Kane '" (Rory, the son of Manns, son of Donough the 

149 o^Doherty, chief of Inisho-wen, did not attend as a member of this Parliament. 
There are various respectable branches of this family in Inishowen, but the eldest 
branch is not determined. The most distinguished man of the name in Ireland is the 
Honorable Chief Justice Doherty ; and Mr. Thomas Doherty, of Muff, so remarkable for 
his gigantic stature, has, by honest industry, realized a larger property than the chief- 
tains of Inishowen had ever enjoyed. 

'^0 0' Boyle, chief of Boylagh, in the west of the county of Donegal, did not attend as a 
member of this Parliament. This family are dwindled into petty farmers and cottiers. 

^°i 0" Oallagliei\ O'Donnell's marshal, who had a smaU tract of land in the barony of 
Tirhugh, did not attend as a member of this Parliament. Though the family is one of 
the most regal of the Milesian race, there are none of the name at present above the 
rank of farmers in the original country of Tirhugh, and very few in any part of Ireland. 
Captain Gallagher, of Kill of Grange, near Dublin, and Henry Gallagher Esq., Baldoyle, 
Raheny, form the aristocracy of this name at present. 

152 2ilac Mahon, chief of Oriel, did not attend this Parliament as a member. The pre- 
sent representative of this family is unknown to the Editor. The Baron Hartland, of 
Strokestown, in the County Roscommon, and Sir Ross Mahon, of Castlegar, in the county 
of Galway, are said to be of this race, but their pedigrees are unknown. Sir Beresf ord 
Mac Mahon, the son of the late Sir William Mac Mahon, Master of the Rolls in Ireland, 
is of a very obscure branch of the Mac Mahons of the county of Clare, his grandfather 
having been a gentleman's servant and his pedigree unknown. 

153 O'Kane, chief of Oireacht-Ui-Chathain, did not attend as a member. The present 
representative of this family is unknown. The only person of the name in the county of 
Londonderry, whose pedigree was confidently traced to Donnell Cleireach OKane of 
Dungiven, when the Editor examined the county of Londonderry in 1834, was George 
O'Kane who was gardener to Francis Bruce, of Downhill. Sir Richard Cane [O'Cathain], 
of the county of "Waterford, and Sir Robert Kane, of Dublin, the distinguished chemist 
who has reflected so much honor on his name and country in the nineteenth century, are 
undoubtedly of this race, but their pedigrees are not satisfactorily made out. There are 
several of the name in Boston and other parts of America, some of whom are related to 
Sir Robert Kane of Dublin, and are distinguished for scientific and literary attain- 
ments. 

[The foregoing note by Dr. 0"Donovan calls for some explanation. 

It is more likely to mislead the reader than to throw any new light on the subject of 
which it treats. From its perusal a person would be likely to conclude that the 0"Kane 
family had almost dwindled down to one person in the county of Londonderry. But such 
i3 not at all the fact. The present writer has made an earnest and careful research into 
the history of this ancient Irish family ; and, as so little is generally known about it, he 
feels that it is quite proper just here to add a few words. The O'Kanes (sometimes 
written O'Cahan, and in Irish O'Cathain), are descended, according to the learned works 
on Irish genealogy, from Eogan — after whom the county of Tyrone is named— son of Mall 
of the Nine Hostages. Little is known of the O'Kanes until the tenth century, when 
simames became hereditary in Ireland. The first of the name was Casey O'Kane. He 
lived about a.d. 1000. The O'Kanes inhabited and were princes or rulers of a district 
which stretches from the Foyle to the east of the Bann, and is bounded on the north by 



Michael O'Clcry, OS.F, jj 

Hospitable, son of Joliii, son of Aiblme) ; Con, the son of ^iall 
Ogo, son of Xiall. son of Con, son of Hngli Boy O'Neill, as repre- 

the sea and on the south by the hills of Munterlooney. The -whole region is now comprised 
in the baronies of Tikeeran, Keenaght, and Coleraine. in the county of Londonderry, 
■which was once known as '" 0"Kane"s country.*' 

■• Great benefactors to the Church,'" writes Father Meehan. " were the 0"Kanes ; for 
they founded and endowed the monastery of the Regular Canons of St. Augustine at 
Dungiven, where the sculptured tomb of the greatest of their race, Cooey-na-Gall, still 
exists.'" This abbey was founded by Dermot 0"Kane in the year 1100. The town of 
Dungiven was founded by the O'Kanes in 1297. According to Father Meehan, their prin- 
cipal seats or castles were Alnoch, Dungiven, and Limavady, the latter of which "■ stands 
upon a time-worn cliff a hundred feet above the point where the Roe forms a cataract of 
exceeding beauty."" 

The chief of the 0"Kane sept, adds the same accurate writer, was a high functionary 
whenever the O'Neill was inaugurated on the royal hill of Tullaghoge. for it was his ofBce 
to cast the gold shoe over the head of the prince-elect. Whenever the latter made war, 
O'Kane was also to furnish him with a contingent of 140 horse and 400 light and heavy- 
infantry. 

The OKanes have ever been the stern and unchanging foes of English power and Eng- 
lish misrule in Ireland. And even out of Ireland tbey made their power felt. We are 
told that on the field of Bannockburn their bright swords flashed in the sun and feU on 
the English troops -with terrific force, thus materially aiding the brave Bruce to achieve 
a glorious victory. 

The bard O'Duggan, who died in 1370, wrote : 

" Of the valiant race of Eogan, 
The now fair chief of Kianacht is 0"Kane." 

The family reached the zenith of its greatness in the person of Cooey O'Kane, kno-wn 
in history as Cooey-na-Gall — i.e., hunter of the English, or foreigners. His death is thus 
recorded in the " Annals of the Four Masters ': " The age of Christ 1385. Cooey OKane, 
lord of Oireacht-Ui-Chathain, died, while at the pinnacle of prosperity and renown." 
" He was buried," writes Dr. O'Donovan, "in the old church of Dungiven, where his tomb 
is still preserved, of which an illustration is given in the Dublin Penny Journal, vol. i. 
p. 4C5. It is an altar tomb of much architectural beau:y, situated in the south side of 
the chancel. 0"Kane is represented in armor, in the usual recumbent position, with one 
hand resting on his sword, and on the -front of the tomb are figures of six warriors 
sculptured in relievo." Dr. Petrie also describes this tomb as possessing much architec- 
tural beauty. " Dungiven is to this day," says Father ileehan, '• the burying-place of the 
O'Kanes." Its cemetery is regarded as one of the most extraordinary in Ireland. 

There is still preserved in the English State Paper Office a singular document, which 
gives an interesting picture of the state of Ireland in 1515. In it the O'Kanes are men- 
tioned as among the great Irish chiefs of that day. They wese ever the faithful allies of 
th.e O'Neills in the contest with England. Even in 1585, -when Shane O'Neill was attainted 
by Elizabeth, English, power, as Father Meehan remarks, was not able to transform the 
territory of the 0"Kanes into shire ground. In the long and gallant struggle of Hugh 
O'Neill -with the armies of England, his chief ally was his son-in-law, Donald O'Kane, who 
supported him with " 1,203 f cot and 300 horse, the ablest men that Ulster yielded. '' Sr me- 
time after O'Neill's flight, Donald O'Kane was arrested, immured in Dublin Castle, and 
finally sent to the Tower of London, where, after about seventeen years' imprisonment, 
he died in 1627. 

The territory of the O'Kanes was forfeited to the English crown. "It was." writes 
Montgomery, first Protestant Bishop of Derry, who got his share of the plundered land, 
"large, pleasant, and fruitful; twenty-four miles in le-ngth between Lough Foyle and the 
Bann ; and in breadth, from the sea coast towards the lower part of Tyrone, fourteen 
miles."' In that rich domain, in Glenconkeine alone, a number of English thieves and 
adventurers, in 1609, feUed oak to the value of about $300,000 for the purpose of building 



78 TJie Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

sentative of the O'Xeills of Clanuaboy ; '** and Magennis '** (Hugh, 
the son of Donnell Oge. son of Donnell Dut). 

Thither came also the chiefs of the Eongh Third of Connanght 
— namely, O'Ronrke ''* (Brian, the sou of Brian, son of Owen) ; 
O'Eeilly (John Boe,'" the son of Hugh Conallagh, son -of Mael- 
mora, son of John, son of Cathal), and his uncle, Edmond, son of 
Maelmora,*^ both of whom were then at strife with each other 
concerning the lordship of their country : also both the O'Farrells 
— ^viz., OTarrell Bane^'^ (William, the son of Donnell, son of 
Cormac), and O'Farrell Boy *" (Fachtna, the son of Brian, son of 
Kory, son of Cathal). 

the town of Londondeny. Thus this ancient and noble Irish family was robbed and 
plundered by the grasping, shameless, and ferocious goyenuuent of £iig^and. 

After the confiscation of their broad lands, many of the O'Kanes took service in the 
Catholic armies of Spain and Austria. One of these. Gen, Daniel CKane, iron t»igli dis- 
tinction in the Xetherlands. In 1&4S he came to Ireland as a Lieotenant-General to ^e 
celebrated Owen Roe O'XeilL He fell in battle, giorionsly fighting for the freedom of his 
natire Isle. " This Daniel 0"Kane.'" says Father Meehan. ''^ras singularly gifted as a 
linguist and general scholar, and "was much lamented by his chief." 

Though reduced to the condition of tenantry to Rnglisb adTenturers, the descendants 
of Cooey-nar-Gall still continned to hold a large portion of the county of Londonderry. 
And there many of the name, highly respectable families, can be found ctbu to this day. 
At the b^inning of the present century, the representatiTC of the oldest branch of the 
race was Dermot O'Kane. who held a considerable district of country in the territory of 
his ancestors. This venerable man died about the year 1S30. His eldest son, Bernard 
O'Kane, emigrated to the United States in 1817, miitiTig his residence in Philadelphia, 
■where he died. Bemaxi O'Kane's family consisted of but two daughters, who now re- 
side in Brooklyn, y. Y.. and one of whom — ^the mother of the present writer — ^was bom 
in Philadelphia..] 

1** O'^nBsqf C: :_—!:-. tiie 5:r. ot Xiall Oge. dif. -Z' attend this Parhainent as a 
member: but his nejir— . Siii^e Mac Brian, the i-niTs: r of the present discount 
O'Xeill, is mariced in :1t zi : i. 1:;- as one of the knigi.15 i:r the county of Antrim. 

*'* Jifagerinls. — Sir H-rz -1 .tI.-^;. chief of Ivea^, was elected one of the kni^ts of 
Pariiaznent forthe counry :i L — - ^'^s rear, his eolLi?.z^:.^ "r t'- r Sir Nicholas BagnelL 
Captain Magennis. the nephe~ \z :_r late Lord Rnr :;z:-tI. :t^ resents a respectable 
branch of this family. 

*** ClUmrfx. — He did not attend this Parliament as a ::it:i: ;^r There is a Prince 
0*Bourke in Russia^ whose imnLediate ancestors, as Counts \ 7. : .Zt ittained high dis- 
tinction in that empire. He is said to be the chief of L:- z _:i.- - ".orose O'Rouike, 
Esq., J.P.. of Ballybollen, County Antrim, descends from tlr 1 . ^ - \t I r : zn'haire 

^^~ John Boe.— The official list of the members of this Par^aiii-enz ^itc^ Philip 0"Reyly 
as the colleague of Edmond. He was the brother of John Roe. 

*»* Edmond, ihe son cf Madmora. — ^He was Tanist of East Breifny, and was elected one 
of the knights of Parliament for the county of Cavan. The present represent ati-re of 
this Edmond is Myles John O'Reilly, Esq , late of the Heath House, and now liTing in 
France. 

iss O'FarrtUBane. — ^WlQiam. O'FferraU was duly elected one of the kni^ts of Parlia- 
ment for the county of Longford. Mr. O'Farrell, of Dublin, the tax collector, is the 
representatiTe of this f amilT, according to Dr. George Petrie ; but the editor is not 
acquainted with the evidences which prove his descent. 

!«• OfFarr-:" Z — Ffa-ehny O'Fferrallwas duly elected one of the kni^bts of Parlia- 
ment for the county of Longford, and his name appears on the official list. The editor 



Michael GClery, O.SJ^, 79 

Thither also repaired the Sil-Murray, with their dependants — 
namely, the son of O'Conar Don''' (lingh, the son of Dermot, 
son of Carbry, son of Owen Caech, son of Felini Geanneach) ; 
0' Conor Koe '" (Teigh Oge, the son of Teige Boy, son of Cathal 
Eoe) ; O'Conor Sligo '" (Donnell, the son of Teige, son of Cathal 
Oo-e, son of Donnell, son of Owen, son of Donnell, son of Mnr- 
tough) ; and a dejonty from Mac Dermot of Moylurg '" — namely, 
Brian, son of Eory, son of Teige, son of liory Oge — for Mac Dermot 
himself {i.e., Teige, the son of Owen) was a Tery old man ; and 
O'Beirn^"' (Carbry, the son of Teige, son of Carbry, son of 
Melaghlin). 

Thither went also Teige, the son of TVilliam, son of Teige Duv 



does not know who the present representative of this Fachtna, or of the OTarrell 
Boy, is. 

1^1 O^ Conor Don. — He was not a member of this Parliament. This family is now repre- 
sent d by the member from Roscommon. Denis, the eon of Owen, son of Denis, son of 
Charles the historian, son of Donough Liath, son of Cathal, son of Cathal. son of Hugh 
O Conor Don of Ballintober, who is the person mentioned in the text. The only other 
surviving members of this family are Denis OTonor of Mountdruid, Arthur O'Conor of 
Elphin. and Matthew O'Conor, Esqrs., sons of Matthew, son of Denis, son of Charles 
O" Conor of Belanagare, the historian. 

1^2 0^ Conor Eoe.— He did not attend as a member of this Parliament. The knights 
elected for the county of Roscommon were Sir Richard Bynghain and Thomas Dillon. 
The late Peter 0"Conor Roe of Tomona, in the county of Roscommon, who left one ille- 
gitimate son, Thomas of Ballintober, was the last recognized head of this family. 
There is another family of the 0"Conors Roe, living in the village of Lanesborough. who 
retain a small property in Slieve Baune ; and there are others of undoubted legitirtiate 
descent living in and near the town of Roscommon, but they are reduced to utter 
poverty. 

^^3 0'' Conor Sligo. — Sir Donald OConor Slygagh was not a member of this Parliament. 
The knights elected for the county of Slygagh were Sir Valantyn Browne, Ja. Crofton, 
and Jo. ilarbury. The last chief of the O'Conor Sligo family was Daniel 0"Conner 
Sligoe, who was a lieutenant-general in the Austrian service ; he died at Brussels on the 
■^th of Fe!Druary, 1756, and was buried in the church of St. Gudule, where the last female 
of the house of Hapsburg erected a monument to him. Some of the collateral branches 
of this family who remained in Ireland are still respectable ; but the present senior re- 
presentative of the name is a struggling farmer, as the late Xatthew O'Conor, of Mount- 
druid, who knew him intimately, often told the Editor. 

1^-* Jfac Dermot of Moylurg — His deputy did not attend as a member of this Parliament. 
This family is now represented by Charles Mac Dermot. Esq , of Coolavin, who ridicu- 
lously styles himself " Prince of Coolavin," a small barony to which his ancestors had no 
claim. 

185 CBelrne. — He was chief of Tir-Briuin-na-Sinna. a beautiful district lying between 
Elphin and Jamestown, in the east of the county of Roscommon, 3Ir. O'Beirne. of Dan- 
gan-I-Beirne, alios Dangan BonaeuilHnn. in the parish of Kilmore, near the Shannon, in 
this territory, is the undoubted head of this family. He still possesses a small remnant 
of Tir-Briuin. O'Beirne did not attend this Parliament as a member. 



8o The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

O'Kellj ; ''' and O'Madden ^" (Donnell, the son of John, son of 
Breasal). 

Thither hkewise went the Earl of Olanrickard '^^ (Ulick, the son 
of Eickard, son of Ulick-na-g Ceann), and the two sons of Gilla- 
DiiY O'Shaughnessj '" — ^■.e., John and Dermot. None worthy of 
note went thither from West Connaught, with the exception of 
Murrongh of the Battle-Axes, the son of Teige, son of Murrough, 
son of Eory 0'Flahertj.''° 

Thither in like manner went the Earl of Thomond '" (Donough, 
the son of Conor, son of Donough, son of Conor, son of Turlough, 
son of Teige O'Brien) ; and Sir Turlough,^" the son of Donnell, 

166 Telge, son of William, eic.^ O^Xelly.—H-e was the head of the branch of the O'Kellys 
seated at Mullaghmore, in the county of tialway. This Teige was not chief of his name, 
nor did he attend this Parliament as a member. The race of this Teige are now extinct, 
but the families of Screen and Gallagh are still extant and highly respectable. See 
"Tribes and l ustom3 of Hy-Many," p. 121. The knights of Par.iament elected for the 
county of Galway were Thomas le Straunge and Francis Shane, who was a disguised 
OTferall. 

^"7 0'' Madden. — ^He did not attend as a member. The present representative of this 
Donnell, the son of Johji O'Madden, is Ambrose Madden of Streamston, Esq., who is the 
son pf Breasal, son of Ambrose, son of Breasal, son of Daniel, son of John, sonof Anmhadh, 
son of Donnell mentioned in the text. See " Tribes and Customs of Hy-Many," p. 152. 

168 The Earl of Clannckard. — In the list of the "Temporal Lordes " of this Parliament, 
printed by Mr. Hardiman, " the Earle of Clanricard " is given as the fourth in order. He 
is now represented by the Marquis of Clanricarde. 

16® 0'' Shaughnessy — Neither of these sons of O'Shaughnessy was a member of this Par- 
liament. See " Genealogies, Tribes, etc., of Hy-Fiachrach," pp. 378,386, 388. The present 
head of this family is Mr. Bartholomew O'Shaughnessy of Galway. The Very Rev. and 
Yen. Terence O'Shaughnessy, R. C. Dean of Killaloe, Dr. Wm. O'Shaughnessy of Calcut- 
ta, F.R.S., and all the O'Shaughnessys of the county of Clare, are not of the senior branch 
of this family, but descended from Roger, the third son of Lieutenant-Colonel William 
O'Shaughnessy, who was made free of the Corporation of Galway in 1648, and who was 
the son of Sir Dermot II., who died in 1606, who was the son of Sir Roger I., who was the 
son of Sir Dermot O' haughnessy, who was knighted by King Henry VIII., a. d. 1533. A 
branch of this family have changed their names to Sandys ; and Mr. Levy, the well known 
musician of the Royal Dublin Theatre, who is one of the descendants of Lieutenant Colonel 
Wiiliam O'Shaughnessy of 1648, has suppressed his father's name and retained that of 
his mother, contrary to the usage of most nations. 

170 0'' Flaherty. — Sir Murrough na doe O'Fflahertie was not a member of this Parliament. 
This chieftain is now represented by Thomas Henry O'Fflahertie of Lemonfield, in the 
county of Galway, who is the son of Sir John O'Fflahertie, the son of Murrough, son of 
Brian Oge, son of Brian Oge na Samhthach, son of Teige, who was sen of Murrough nah. 
Tuagh, or Murrough of the Battle-Axes, who was appointed " chief of all the O'Fflaher- 
ties " by Queen Elizabeth. See Genealogical Table in " Chorographical Description of 
lar-Connaught," edited by Mr. Hardiman, p. 362. 

"1 The Earl of Thomond.— In the official list printed by Mr. Hardiman, the " Earle of 
Tomond" is given as fifth in order among the " Temporal Lordes." The race of this 
Donough, son of Connor, is extinct. The present Marquis of Thomond descends from 
Dermot, who was the son of Murrough, first Earl of Thomocad, from whose second son, 
Donough, the family of Eromoland are descended. 

^■'■2 Sir Turlovgh. — He was duly elected one of the knights of Parliament for the county 
of Clare. According to a pedigree of the O'Briens, preserved in a paprr manuscript in 



Michael CClery, O.S.F, 8i 

son of Conor, son of Turlough, son of Teige O'Brien, who had 
been elected a knight of Parliament for the county of Clare. 

Thither went Turlough, son of Teige, son of Conor O'Brien ; ^" 
and also the lord of the western part of Clann-Coilein — namely, 
Mac Namara "* (John, the son of Teige) ; and Boethius, the son of 
Hugh, son of Boethius Mac Clancy,"^ the second knight of Parlia- 
ment elected to represent the county of Clare. 

Thither repaired the son of O'Loughlin of Burren "® (Eossa, the 
son of Owny, son of Melaghlin, son of Eury, son of Ana) ; Mac-I- 
Brien Ara,"^ Bishop of Killaloe — namely, Murtough, son of Tur- 

the Library of the Royal Irish Academy, No. 23, p. 61, this Sir Turlough had a son DonneU, 
■who married Ellen, the daughter of Edmond Fitzgerald, knight of Glinn, by whom he had 
two sons — 1, Teige, the grandfather of Christopher O'Brien, Esq. [of Ennistimon], who was 
living in 1713 when this pedigree was compiled ; and 2, Murtough, who married Slaine, 
daughter of John Mac Namara of Moyreask, by whom he had a son Donnell, who married 
the daughter of Major Donough Roe Mac Namara, by whom he had issue living in 1713, 
but the compiler of this pedigree does not name the issue of Donnell Spainneach. Ac- 
cording to the tradition in the country, Terence O'Brien, Esq., of Glencolumbkille, is the 
great-grandson of a Donnell Spaineach, son of Coloriel Murtough O'Brien ; but Terence 
O'Brien himself asserts that he descends from a Donnell Spaineach, who was the son of a 
General Murtough O'Brien, who was a son of Dermot, fifth Baron of Inchiquin, but the 
editor has not been able to find any evidence to prove that Dermot, the fifth Baron of 
Inchiquin, had a son Murtough. 

i"3 Turlough, the Son of Teige, etc., CBrien. — He did not attend as a member of this Par- 
liament. The Lord of Inchiquin sat in this Parliament among the peers, though the 
Four Masters take no notice of him. 

^"^ Mac Namara.— 'B.B did not attend as a member of this Parliament. . The race of this 
John is extinct. Major Mac Namara, M.P,, is descended from a junior branch of the 
eastern Mac Namara family, but his pedigree is not satisfactorily made out. Major 
Daniel Mac Mamara Bourchier descends by the mother's side from the senior branch of 
the western Mac Namaras. 

'^'''^ Boethius Mac Clancy. — " Boetius Clanchy," who was the Brehon of Thomond and a 
good scholar, was duly elected one of the two knights to represent the county of Clare 
in this Parh'ament. He was afterwards appointed High Sheriff of the county of Clare, an 
ofBce for which he was very well qualified, and, according to the tradition in the country, 
murdered some Spaniards belonging to the great Armada, who were driven on the coast 
of Clare in 1588. 

1"" O'' Loughlin of Btirren. — He did not attend as a member of this Parliament. Mr. 
O'Loughlin, of Newton, is the present senior representative of this family. Sir Colman 
O'Loughlin represents a junior branch. 

1'^'^ Mac-I-Bnen Ara. — This bishop was the son of Turlough Mac-I-Brien Ara, who made 
his submission to Queen Elizabeth in 1567. On the death of his elder brother, 
Donough, Murtough or Maurice, Bishop of Killaloe, became the head of this family. 
Murtough O'Brien Ara was appointed Bishop of Killaloe by Queen Elizabeth, by letters- 
patent dated the 15th of May, 1570, and had his writ of restitution to the tempo- 
ralities the same day. He received the profits of this see six years before his conse- 
cration, but, being at last consecrated, he sat about thirty-six years after. He died 
on the last day of April, 1613, having voluntarily resigned a year before his death. 
See Harris's edition of " Ware's Bishops," p. 595, where Harris states that the Arra 
from whence this bishop's familj-, for the sake of distinction, were called O'Brien- 
Ara, is a barony in the county of Limerick. But this is an error of Harris, who ought 
to have known that Mac-I-Brien was seated on the east side of Lough Derg, in the 



82 The Pilose and Poetry of Ireland, 

lough, son of Murtongli, son of Donnell, son of Teige ; 0' Carroll '^® 
(Calvagli, the son of AVilliam Odhar, son of Ferganainm, son of 
Mulrony, son of John) ; Mac Coghlan ^^^ (John, the son of Art, 
son of Cormac) ; and O'Dwyer ^®° of Coill-na-manach (Philip, son 
of Owny). 

Thither went Mac Brien of Hy-Cuanagh, '^^ namely, Mnrtough, 
the son of Turlough, son of Mnrtough ; the lord of Oarrigogunnell ^^^ 
and of Fasach-Luimnighe ^" — namely, Brian Duv, the son of Don- 
ough, son of Mahon, son of Donough, son of Brian Duv O'Brien ; 
and Conor-na-Moinge [of the Long Hair], son of William 
Ceach, son of Dermot O'Mulryan,'^* lord of Uaithne-Ui-Mhaoil- 
riain. To this Parliament repaired some of the chiefs of the de- 
scendants of Eoghan More, ^^^ with their dependants — namely, Mac 

barony of Ara, or Duharra, in the county of Tipperary. The castle of Ballina, near the 
bridge of Elllaloe, and the castles of Castletown and Knoc-an-Ein-fhinn, now Birdhill, in 
this barony, belonged to this family. It should be here remarked that the " Busshopp of 
Eillalowe" appears in the list of spiritual lords of this Parliament. The race of this 
bishop has become extinct, but some of the line of Donnell Connaughtagh Mac-I-Brien 
Ara are stili possessed of some property in the territory. Mr. O'Brien, of Kincora Lodge, 
Eillaloe, is of this race. See pedigree of Mac-I Brien Ara, preserved in the Library of 
Trinity College, Dublin, H. 1, 7. 

^''s 0' Carroll. — ^He did not attend this Parliament as a member of it. This Calvagh was 
the third illegitimate son of Sir William O Carroll, chief of Ely O'Carroll, comprising at 
this period the baronies of Cflonlisk and Ballybritt. in the south of King's County. The 
present chief of this family is .unknown. The grandfather of Marchioness Wellesley, who 
died in America, was its undoubted representative. 

^'^ 3£ac Coghlan. — He did not attend this Parliament as a member of it. The last chief 
of this family died some forty years since without issue, and his estates passed to the 
Dalys and Armstrongs. General Coghlan is of an obscure branch of this family. 

] 80 Qi'Dicyer. — He was not a member of this Parliament. Coill-na-manach is the present 
barony of Kilnamanagh, in the county of Tipperary. The present chief of this name is 
■unknown to the editor. There is a Colonel Dwyer of Ballyquirk Castle, in the parish of 
liorha, barony of Lower Ormond, and county of Tipperary, but the editor does not know 
iis descent. 

isi Mac-Brian of Ry-Cuanagh. — He was not a member of this Parliament. The two knights 
elected for the county of Limerick were Thomas Norris aid B,ichard Bourke. Mac Brian 
Cuanach was seated in the barony of Coonagh, in the county of Limerick, where the ruins 
of his splendid mansion are still to be seen in the townland and parish of Castletown. 
The present representative of this family is unknown to the editor. 

1^2 TJie, Lord of Carrigogunnell . — He was not a member of this Parliament. The present 
representative of this family is unknown to the editor. 

^^3 Fasaglh Luimnighe — z.e., the forest or wilderness of Limerick. This was a name for 
apart of the territory of Pobblebrien, near the city of Limerick. 

184 O^Mulryan. — Chief of the two Ownys, one a barony or half-barony, as it was till 
recently called, in the county of Limerick, and the other a barony in the county of Tippe- 
rary. He was not a member of this Parliament. The Ryans of Ballymakeogh, near New- 
port, in Tipperary, now extinct, were the senior branch of this family. Edmond O'Ryan' 
Esq., of Bansha House, near the town of Tipperary, and George Ryan, Esq., of Inch 
House, were considered the chief representatives of this family in 1848, when the editor 
examined the county of Tipperary for the Ordnance Survey. 

185 Eoghan More — I.e.. the sou of Oilioll Olum, King of Munster in the third century, and 
ancestor of the dominant families of Munster. 



Michael GClery, O.S.F, Z^ 

Carthy More '^* (Donnell, the son of Donnell, son of Cormac 
Ladhracli) ; Mac Carthy Cairbreach '" (Owen, son of Donnell, son 
of Fineen, son of Donnell, son of Dermot-an-Duna) ; and the sons 
of his two brothers — namely, Donnell, son of Cormac-na-h Aine, 
and Fineen, the son of Donongh. 

Thither also went the two chiefs who were at strife with each 
other concerning the lordship of Duhallow '^® — namely, Dermot, 
the son of Owen, son of Donongh an-Bhothair, son of Owen, son 
of Donongh ; and Donongh, the son of Cormac Oge, son of Cor- 
mac, son of Donongh. 

Thither hkewise went O'SuUivan Beare ^^^ (Owen, son of Dermot, 
son of Donnell, son of Donongh, son of Dermot Balbh) ; O'Sulli- 
Yan More '^° (Owen, the son of Donnell, son of Donnell, son of 
Donnell-na Sgreadaighe) ; O'Mahony ^^^ the Western — namely, 

"^^^ Mac Car?^yJ/(>re.— He is entered in the list next after "The Earle of Tomond," as 
*' The'Earleof Clancare,"' that being an anglicized abbreviation, and not Glencare, the vale 
of the river Carthach, in the county of Xerry, as ignorantly assumed by most -Anglo- 
Irish -WTriters. The race of this Earl is extinct. 

^'^~ Mac Carthy Cairbreach. — He was Sir Owen Mac Carthy Keagh. chief of Carbery, in 
the county of Cork. He was not a member of this Parliament. The present representa- 
tive of this family is said to be the Count Mac Carthy of France, whose pedigree has been 
published by Monsieur Laine, who was genealogist to Charles X. 

^-~ DuhaUoic. — Neither of these chiefs was member of this Parliament. The knights 
elected to represent the county of Cork in this Parliament were John Xorries, Lord 
President. William Cogan, and John Fitz Edmond. The editor does not know the present 
chief of this family. ' 

1S9 C'.S'jfZ/iraJZ-Secre was not a member of this Parliament. The present representative 
of this family is unknown. There are several respectable gentlemen of the race in the 
Taaronies of Beare and Bantry, but the editor has not been able to ascertain their pedi- 
grees. The editor is not aware how the Baron O'Sullivan de Grass, the present Ambas- 
sador of Belgium at the Court of Vienna, descends ; the family claim to be the repre- 
sentatives of the O'Sullivans. It is probable that they descend either directly or col- 
laterally with the O'SuUivan who was one of the faithful companions of Prince Charles 
Edward in his perilous wanderings after the defeat of CuUoden. One of the Baron's 
■brothers is married to the sister of the present Sir Roger Palmer, Bart. 

190 0''SuUivan More. — He was not a member of this Parliament. The two knights elected 
to represent the county of Kerry in this Parliament were Johu Fitzgerald and Thomas 
Spring. The representative of O'Sullivan More in the last century was O'Sullivan of 
Tomies. near EJillarney. Timothy O'Sullivan, Esq.. of Prospect, near Kenmare, repre- 
sents O'Sullivan of Cappanacush, from which house the O'Sullivan More was elected, in 
case of failure cf issue in the senior branch. Mac Gillicuddy of the Reeks, near Killar- 
ney, whose pedigree is very well known, represents another branch of this family of 
O'Sullivan More ; and Sir Charles Sullivan, of Thames Ditton, County Surrey, is said, in 
•■' Burke's Peerage,'" to be of this family. 

i®i O'Mahony— i.e.., O'Mahony, of Foun lartharach, or Ivahagh, in the southwest of Car- 
bery, in the county of Cork. He was not a member of this Parliament. The present 
representative of this family is supposed to be O'Mahony of DunJow, near Killamey. 
There is a Count O'Mahony of Fra-ce. who resides, or recently resided, at Fribourg, in 
Switzerland, and who, no doubt, descends from "■ It fameux Mahony'" of the early days oZ 
the Irish Brigade. 



84 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

Conor, the son of Conor Fin Oge, son of Conor Fin, son of Conor 
O'Malionj; and O'DriscoU More "'' (Fineen, the son of Conor, son 
of Fineen, son of Conor). 

Thither likewise repaired Mac Gillapatrick '^^ of Ossory (Fineen, 
the son of Brian, son of Fineen) ; Mageoghegan '^* (Coula, the son 
of Conor, son of Leyny) ; and O'Molloy '^^ (Connell, the son of 
Cahir). 

^one worthy of notice are said to have gone to that Parliament 
of the race of Laoighseach Leannmor ^^^ son of Conall Cearnach ; 
or of the race of Rossa Failghe, "^ the son of Cahir More, from 

192 O'DriscoU More.—'S.e -was chief of Collymore, a territory of which Baltimore was the 
chief town, in the county of Cork. Sir Fineen or Florence O'DriscoU More was not a 
member of this Parliament, Con O'DriscoU, called the Admiral, was the last known chief 
of this family. Alexander O'DriscoU, Esq., J. P. of the county of Cork, comes from a 
junior branch. 

1^3 Mac GiUapatncTc. — The Lord of Upper Ossory sat in this Parliament among the- 
"TemporailLordes." The late Earl of Ossory was the chief of this name. He left one 
illegitimate son, who inherits his estates, and who claims legitimacy, as his mother had 
been privately married to the Earl, his father, by a Roman Catholic priest. 

'^^^ Mageogliegan. — He was the chief of Kineleaghe, a territo>ry now included in the 
barony of Moycashel, in the county of Westmeath. He was not a member of this Parlia- 
ment. The two knights elected to represent the county of Westmeath in this Parlia- 
ment were "Ed. Nugend de Disert" and "Ed. Nugent de Morton." The present chief 
of the Mageoghegans is John Augustus O'Neill [Mageoghegan], Esq., of Bunowen Castle, 
in the county of Galway, the grandson of Bichard Geoghegan, so remarkable in Ireland 
for his learning. and knowledge of the fine arts. Sir Richard Nagle, of Jamestown and 
Donore Castle, in the county of Westmeath, is maternally descended from the senior 
branch of this family, but he cannot be considered the chief of the Mageoghegans, as he 
is not of the name by paternal descent. 

195 o'3folloy. — He was ohief of a territory comprising the baronies of Fircall, Bally- 
cowan, and Ballyboy, in the present King's County, but he did not attend as a member 
of this Parliament. This Connell was the father of the illustrious Cahir or Carolus O'Mol- 
loy, whose hospitality the Rev. P. Fr. Francis O'Molloy thus lauds in an incidental re- 
mark in his "Irish Prosody,"' published at Rome in the year 1677, p. 180 : " Difficile qui- 
dem factu apparet hoc metri genus, verum dif&cilius creditu quod superius allatum, etc.,, 
refert ; verissimum tamem, cuius ipse occulares vidi et audiui testes fide dignissimos ; 
nemp6 quod Carolus Conalli filius Molloyorum princeps. Avus Illustri simi nunc 
viuentis, vastato HibernicB Regno fame, flamma f erro, sub Elizabetha Regina in summis 
Annonae penurijs, imitatos a sepso Christo Natalities per dies duodecim tractauerit non- 
gentos sexaginta homines in domo propria." There are several respectable gentlemen 
of the MoUoys of this race. Daniel Molloy, Esq., of Clonbela, near Birr, in the King's 
County, is the present head of the family, according to the tradition in the country, but 
the editor does not know his pedigree. 

^^^ Eace of Laoighseach Leannmor — z.e., Laoighseach, or Lewis of the large mantle. He 
is otherwise called Laoighseach Ceannmhor — i.e., of the large head, and Laoighseach 
Lannmhor — ie.,of the large eword. He is the ancestor of the O'Mores and their cor- 
relatives, the seven septs of Leix. The present representative of the O'Mores is un- 
known. R. More O'Farrell, M.P., descends from the senior branch of them by the mother's 
side ; and Garrett Moore, Esq., of Cloghan Catitle, calls himself the O'Moore, though he 
does not know his pedigree beyond the year 1611, and there is strong evidence to show 
that he is an offset of the English family of the Moors of Drogheda. 

1^''' Eace Of Rossa Failghe— i-e., the O'Conors Faly, who had but little property Jn Ireland 
at this period. The present chief is unknown. 



Micliacl aClcry, OSJ^. 85 

Offalv ; or of the descendauts of Daii-e Baracli/'- the son of Cahir 
More; or of the Kayanaghs/^" Bymes, Tooles,''" O'Dnnnes, or 
O'DempsTS.'" To this Parhament, however, went the senior of 
Gaval-Rannall — namely, Fiagh/°^ the son of Hngh, son of Johu, 
son of Donnell Glas of Glennialure. 

All these nobles assembled in Dublin and remained there for 
some time, bnt the business of the Parliament was not finished "' 
this year. They then departed for theii* respective homes. 

1'* Daire Bar<u:h. — The principal family of his race extant at this period -was Mac Gor- 
man, who was then seated in the barony of Ibrickan and county of Clare. There are 
seTeral resi>ectable gentlemen of this fa m ily who now call themselves O'Gorman. 

^5* Katatiaghs. — The family of Borris-Idrcne are the senior branch of this family. There 
are several highly respectable families of the name living in the neighborhood of Vienna. 
These are supposed to be descended from the celebrated Brian-na-Stroice of Drummin, 
son of Morgan, son of Dowling Kavanagh of Ballyleigh. in the county cf Carlow. who dis- 
tinguished himself by his valor at the battles of the Boyne and Aughrim. His son, John 
Baptista Kavanagh, left Ireland after the capitulation of Limerick, and became Baron 
Oniditz in Bohemia, and died in 17T4. His father, Brian-na-.SYro-j/v. -who is said to have 
been the largest officer in James's service, remained in Ireland, and lived at Drummin 
till February, 1735. when he died in the seventy-fourth year of his age. and was buried 
at St. Mullin"s. where there L'? a curious monument to his memory. See Ryan's •• History 
and Antiquities of the County of Carlow."" p. 350. From Maurice, the elder brother of 
Brian-/!'j-.??rO'<'<'e. is lineally descended John Kavanagh (son of Dowling. son of Morgan, 
son of Maurice, son of Morgan, son of Dowlins of Ballyleigh, son of Dermot, son of Mur- 
Tongh, brother of Cahir. Baron of Ballyane , of Bauck, near St. Mullin's. in the county of 
Carlow, who possesses a small estate in fee. From Eose, the daughter of Dowling 
Xavanagh of Ballyleigh. who was married in the year 1670 to Cornelius O'Donovan of 
Ballymountain, in the barony of Igrine and county of Kilkenny, the editor is the fourth 
in descent. 

"° loofeg.— The head of this family in the last century was Laurence CToole, Esq., of 
Buxtown, alias Fairfield, in the county of Wexford. 

-■- O'DuivMJi^ 0' Demj)^i/s.—The present head of the O'Dunnes is Lieutenant-Colonel 
Francis Dunne of Brittas. in the Queen's County, who is the son of the late General 
Edward Dunne, son of Francis, son of Edward, son of Terence, son of Charles, sen of 
Bamaby, patentee. 15 Car. i.. son of Brian, son cf Teige. son of Teige, son of Leynj. son 
of Bory, son of Donough, son of Amhalgaidh. The O'Dempseys have dwindled into ple- 
beians, and ilr. Dempsey. of Liverpool, merchant, is now the most distinguished man of 
that name. 

-02 FiagJi^ tJie %on of Hugh. — ^He was not a member of this Parliament, although Plowden 
asserts that Fiagh Mac Hugh '• took his seat "' as representative for Gleimialure. The late 
Garrett Byrne. Esq.. of Ballymanus. in the county of Wicklow. who was expiatriated in 
1798, was probably the head of the race of Hugh Duv O'Byme. whose descendants were 
livais of the family of Fiagh Mac Hugh. — See • History of the Rebellion of I'f*." by P. 
O'KeUy. Esq.. p. 185. The Lord de Tabley descends from Melaghlin Dufi O'Byme. of 
nallintlea, in Wicklow, who vas of the senior or chieftain branch of the O'Byixes. not 
of the Gaval-Rannall. 

^^''^ Tti-i Parllim^rd icas /\otntd-^ied. — This Parliament was prorogued on the 2&th of May, 
having passed the two following acts : 

1. An act to attaint James Eustace, Viscount Baltinglass. and others, which is com- 
monly called the statute of Baltinglass. and makes estates tail forfeitable for treason, 
and provides against the fraudulent conveyances of the attainted. 

2. An act for the restitution in blood of Laurence Delahide, whose ancestor had been. 
attainted in the reign of Henry VLQ. 

The Lord Deputy intended to suspend Poyning's Act, that he might the more speedily 



86 The Prose and Poetiy of Ireland, 

The GoYernor of the province of Oonnaught, with a number of 
other men of distinction, and of the Council of Dublin, went to 
the province of Oonnaught, to hold, in the first place, a session in 
the monastery of Ennis, in the county of Clare. Here they en- 
acted unusual ordinances — namely, that ten shillings should be 
paid to the queen for every quarter of land in the country, as well 
ecclesiastical as lay lands, excepting the liberties "^""^ which they 
themselves consented to grant to the gentlemen of the country; 
and that, over and above the queen's rent, five shillings should be 
paid to the lord of Thomond for every quarter of land, free and 
unfree,'^"^ in the whole country, except the liberties and church land. 



pass such laws as he thought necessary ; but some of the Anglo-Irish members, who wer& 
by no means disposed to entrust the Lord Deputy with the power of assenting to any 
laws which might be procured in Parliament, overthrew the bill at the third reading. 
Ihe second session of this Parliament was on the 28th of April, 1586, when it passed the 
celebrated act " That all conveyances made, or pretended to be made, by any person at- 
tainted within thirteen years before the act, shall be entered on record in the Exchequer 
"Within a year, or be void." — See Spenser's " View of the State of Ireland," Dublin reprint 
of 1809, p. 41. This Parliament was dissolved on the 14th of May, 1536. 

On the 15th of July, 1585, Perrott issued a commission, directed to Sir Richard Bingham, 
Governor of Connaught, the Earls of Thomond and Clanricaird, the Baron of Athenry^ 
Sir Turlough O'Brien, Sir Richard Bourke Mac WiUiam Elghter, Sir Donald O'Conor 
Sligo, Sir Brian O'Rourke, Sir Murrough-na-Doe O'Elahertie, and others, reciting : 
" Where our province of Connaught and Thomond, through the contynuall dissention 
of the lords and chief tans, challenging authorities, cuttings, and cessings, under pretext© 
of defending the people under their several rules, have run to all errors, and understand- 
ing the good inclination of these our subjects, through the good mynysterie of our truly" 
and well-beloved Sir John Perrott, our deputy, etc., to embrace all good wayes and 
m.eansthat maybe devised to conserve them in our obedience, and their rights and titles 
reduced from the uncertaintye wherein it stood, to continue certain for ever here- 
after." 

The following proposals were made by these commissioners : " The chieftains of coun- 
tries, gentlemen and freeholders of the province of Connaught, to pass unto the Queen's 
Majestic, her heirs and successors, a grant of ten Shillings English, or a marke Irish, 
upon every quarter of land containing 120 acres, manured or to be manured, that bears 
either home or corne, in lieu and c nsideration to be discharged from othf r cess, tax- 
ation, or challenge, excepting the rising out of horse and foote, for the service of the 
Prince and state, such as should be particularly agreed upon, and some certaine dayes* 
labour for building and fortification for the safety of the people and kingdome." — " Gov- 
ernment of Ireland under Sir John Perrott, Knight," 4to, London, 1626, p. 80. 

The Commissioners commenced with the county of Clare, or Thomond. Then followed 
the districts comprehended within the newly-created county of Galway. " Indentures of 
Composition " were entered into for these territories, which were printed for the first 
time in the appendix to Hardiman's edition of O'Flaherty's " Chorographical Description, 
of lar-Connaught," pp. 309-362. See also Cox's " Hibernia Anglicana," ad. 1E85 

204 Zifter^zes.— Queen Elizabeth, in her letter to the deputy. Sir Henry, dated 7th October^ 
1577, says that the Earl of Thomond pretended an ancient freedom to the whole barony 
of Ibreckan, and desired the like in the other baronies. 

205 proQ and unfree. — It is not easy to determine what the Four Masters intend here — 
that is to say, whether they spoke in reference to English or Irish tenure. The editor 
therefore has translated the words literally, leaving the reader to form his own opinion.. 



Michael G Clery, OS.F. Sj 

They took from the Earl of Thomond the district of Kinel- 
Fearmaich/"^ whicli had been theretofore under tribute to his an- 
cestors, and gave the lordship of it to the Baron of Inchiquin/" 
Murrough, the son of Murrough, son of Dermot O'Brien. It was 
also ordained and agreed that Turlough, the son of Donnell, son of 
Conor O'Brien, should have the rents and court of Corcomroe [the 
castle of Dumhach] in succession to his father, to whom it had been 
first given out of the lordship of Thomond by the Earl of Thomond 
— namely, Conor, the son of Donough O'Brien. 

They deprived of title and tribute every head or chief of a sept, 
and every other lord of a triocha-ched throughout the whole country 
(with the exception of Mac ISTamara, lord of the western part of 
the district of Clann-Coilein) who did not subscribe his signature 
to this ordinance of theirs). They acted a like ordinance in the 
counties of Galway, Eoscommon, Mayo, and Sligo. 

FOURTH SELECTION, VOL. VI., PP. 2373 TO 2375. 

The Age of Christ 1616. O'Neill"' (Hugh, son of Eerdorcha, 
son of Con Bacagh, son of Con, son of Henry, son of Owen), who 
had been baron from the death of his father to the year when the 
celebrated Parliament was held in Dublin, 1584 [7'ecte 1585], and 
who was styled Earl of Tyrone at that Parliament, and who was 
afterwards styled O'Neill, died at an advanced age, after having 

According to the Irisli notion, it meant land held by the chief's relatives free of rent, and 
was land held by strangers (or natiyes who had forfeited their privileges by crime or 
otherwise), at high rents and for services of an ignoble nature. If they use the term 
with reference to the English law, as received in Thomond since the creation of the earl- 
dom, they must have taken to denote lands held in frank -tenement, or knight's service, 
which was esteemed the most honorable species of tenure among the English ; and land 
held in pure villenage. 

206 Xinel Fearmaic. — In the description of the county of Clare, written about this period, 
and now preserved in the Manuscript Library of Trinity College, Dublin, E. ii. 14, this 
territory is called Troghkeyd Kynel Veroge, or the barony of TuJlagh-IDea. It comprised 
the following parishes, viz : Rat:, Kilnamona, Killinaboy, Kilvedain, Kilvily, Dysart, 
Ruane, Kilnoe, Kilkeedy, Inishcronan. From this list it is clear that the whole of the 
cantred of Kinel-Fermaic is included in the present barony of Inchiqutu, except the parish 
of Inishcronan, and we have sufficient evidence to prove that this parish did not origi- 
nally belong to Kinel-Fermaic, although attached to it at this period, for it was anciently 
a portion of Hy-Caisin, or Mac Namara's original territory, and was a part of the deanery 
of Ogashin, according to the "Liber Regalis Visitationis." 

2" The Baron of Inchiquin.—Th.is Murrough. who was the fourth Baron of Inchiquin, at- 
tended the Parliament of 1585, though the Four Masters take no notice of him. The pro- 
bability is that they mistook him for Turlough, the son of Teige, son of Conor C'Brien, a 
personage who appears to have been called into historical existence by an error of 
transcription. 

208 The celebrated Hugh O'Neill of Irish history. « 



SS The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

passed his life in prosperiry and happiness, in valiant and illus- 
trious achievements, in honor and nobleness. The place at which 
he died vras Eonie, and his death occurred on the 20tli of July, 
after exemplary penance for his sins, and gaining the victory of the 
world and the devil. 

Although he died far from Armagh, the burial- j^lace of his an- 
cestors, it was a token that God was pleased with his hfe that the 
Lord permitted him a no worse ^"^ burial place — namely, Rome, 
the head city of the Christians. 

The person who here died was a powerful, mighty lord, en- 
dowed with wisdom, subtlety, and profundity of mind and in- 
tellect ; a warlike, valorous, 25redatory, enterprising lord in defend- 
ing his religion and his patrimony against his enemies ; a pious and 
charitable lord, mild and gentle with his friends ; fierce and stern 
towards his enemies, until he had brought them to submission and 
obedience to his authority : a lord who had not coveted to possess 
himself of the illegal or excessive property of any other, except 
such as had been hereditary in his ancestors from a remote i^eriod ; 
a lord with the authority and praiseworthy characteristics of a 
prince, who had not suffered . theft or robbery, abduction or rape, 
spite or animosity, to prevail during his reign, but had kept all 
under the authority of the law, as was meet for a prince.^" 

209 2^0 worse — i.e., than Armagli. 

210 This is the last historical fact recorded by the Four Masters. 



S/J^ RICHARD STEELE, 

THE FOUNDER OF ENGLISH PERIODICAL LITERATURE. 

*'I am far from wishing to depreciate Addison's talents, but I am anxious to 
do justice to Steele, who was, I think, upon the whole, a less artificial and more 
original writer. "—William Hazlitt. 

"As an essayist his fame will be lasting." — Dr. J. S. Hart. 

EICHAED STEELE was born in Dublin about the year 1675. 
His father * was a counsellor-at-law and private secretary to 
the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. At an early age Eichard was sent 
to the Charter House School, London ; there he made the acquaint- 
ance of Joseph Addison, his fellow-pupil and somewhat his senior. 
He afterwards joined Addison at Oxford, having entered Merton 
College in 1692. Young Steele, it appears, applied himself chiefly 
to the study of literature, discovered an inclination to become a 
dramatic author, and even wrote a comedy. 

Unfortunately, he imbibed a predilection for the army, and, no 
doubt foolishly dazzled by the glitter and show of the richly-laced 
scarlet coats and white, waving plumes of the Horse Guards, he 
entered that corps a private, leaving Oxford withoat a degree. This 
displeased all his friends. It was the starting-point of Steele's 
career on the road of folly. In fact, the rash step cost him a for- 
tune ; for a wealthy Irish relative in the county of Wexford, indig- 
nant at the news, cut the name of the reckless fellow out of his 
will, regarding him as a disgrace to his family. But a total dis- 
reo-ard for his interest whenever it interfered Avith his inclination 
uniformly marked Steele's conduct. It was at the bottom of his 
almost life-long troubles, and certainly was the cause of the end- 
less pecuniary embarrassments in which he was involved. His 
agreeable manners, however, and frank, open jovialty won him 
many friends in the army. He was soon promoted, and as rollick- 
ing Captain Eichard Steele he was indeed considered a pleasant 
companion. 

1 Steele's father was an Englishman, 



90 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

Steele was no sooner an oflBcer than he began to lead a wild, 
dissipated life. He gave himself up to every excess. But he had 
his better moments. Serious reflection would bring about repen- 
tance. He would deeply regret his reckless career, and would feel 
strongly disposed to amend. " There is not, perhaps, on record," 
writes one of his biograjDhers, ''^a more striking instance of a mind, 
strongly imbued with moral and religious feelings, waging for years 
an unsuccessful war with overbearing passions and corru^^t habits 
than was exhibited in Steele. Plunged in dissipation and intempe-'' 
ranee, he was constantly agonized by shame and remorse for his 
folly and his waste of time and talent. In these intervals of reviv- 
ing virtue he composed, as a manual for his own private use, 'The 
Christian Hero,' but it failed to work the desired reformation, and 
day after day still continued to be an alternation of intemperance 
and compunction. He then determined to -^xiwt his work, im- 
pressed with the idea that when his professions were before the 
public he would be compelled to assimilate his practice to them. 
The only result of this experiment was to excite the pity of the 
worthy and the derision of the dissolute." The idea of a fast-living 
soldier, who could never resist the attractions of the '^ Eose Tavern " 
or the delight of giving a sound thrashing to the watch at midnight, 
appearing in print as a religious character, seemed to have in it 
something irresistibly comic. 

In spite of Steele's follies, his friendly disposition and natural 
goodness of heart could not be hidden. He now earnestly began to 
use his pen in another line ; and we are ha];)py to bear testimony to 
the fact that his writings were always conducive to virtue. He pro- 
duced three comedies, ^'The Funeral; or. Grief a la Mode," ''The 
Tender Husband; or, The Accomplished Fools," and "The Lying 
Lover," which were performed in 1702 and the two following 
years. The sober tone of the last drew down the hisses of a loose 
audience, and Steele, in disgust, withdrew from dramatic author- 
ship. To the honor of this gifted Irishman, let it never be forgot- 
ten that he was the first dramatist after the Eestoration to introduce 
virtue on the English stage. 

"Steele's 'Conscious Lovers,' " writes the learned Hallam, "is 
the first comedy which can be called moral." ' 

" The comedies of Steele," says the critic Hazlitt, "were the first 

2 "Introduction to the Literature of Europe," toI. iii. Steele wrote ''The Conscious 
Lovers " in 1722. It vas his last pJay. 



Sir Richard Steele. 91 

that were written expressly with a view not to imitate the manners, 
but to reform the morals, of the age." * 

The state of society in England at this period was truly deplora- 
ble. From about tlae time of the accession of Wilham III., of 
Boyne celebrit}^, through the reigns of the first two Georges, there 
was little change ; coarseness and corruption ruled in places high 
and low. '' That this brutal, selfish, and vulgar tone of social inter- 
course," writes Prof. Shaw, ''was at once a result and an indica- 
tion of a deep and general deterioration of morals is more than 
probable. It partly arose from the unfortunate mixture of politics 
in the whole texture, so to speak, of society, and may be attributed 
partly to the increased influence of the popular element in our 
political constitution, and in some degree to that roughness and 
ferocity of manners which a long-continued period of warfare seldom 
fails to communicate to a nation. Gambling was exceedingly 
prevalent, and drunkenness, so long, alas ! the vice of Englishmen, 
was uniyersally habitual. Swearing and gross indecency of lan- 
guage were uniyersally indulged in. The barbarous and brutahzing 
sports of the cock-pit and the bull-ring were still pursued. As to 
the pleasures of the intellect and the taste, they were either abso- 
lutely unknown or confined to a few, and those few regarded as 
pedants or as humorists." * 

'' That general knowledge," says Dr. Johnson, speaking of this 
period, ''which now circulates in common talk was then rarely to 
be found. Men not professing learning were not ashamed of igno- 
rance, and in the female world any acquaintance with books was 
distinguished only to be censured." Such was English society in 
the days of Steele, or little more than a century and a half ago 1 

The first to combat the follies of that coarse age— the first who 
manfully labored to raise up the Enghsh nation from its brutal 
ignorance and grovelling condition, was the Irish Eichard Steele. 
The year 1709 marks the opening of a great era in English litera- 
ture—the birth of \}i\Q first English periodical worthy of the name. 
Taking the name of Isaac Biclcer staff; Steele began The Tatler 
in concert with Swift, with whom at this time he was in habits of 
intimacy. The first number was issued on April 12. He began 

' "Lectures on the Comic English \mters," lect. viii. 

■* " Outlines of English Literature." 

s His friend Swift had assumed that name the preceding year, and had made it famous 
by several predictions which he wrote. Steele thought the popularity of The Toiler 
"Would be increased by attaching such a name to it. 



92 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

this journal for the good of the people, and, as he adds, "lor onr 
more convenient snpjoort in the service of the public, it is cer- 
tain that many other schemes have been proposed to me, as a friend 
offered to show me in a treatise he had written, which he called 
'• The Whole Art of Life ; or. The Introduction to Great Men, illus- 
trated in a Pack of Cards,' but, being a novice at all manner of 
play, I declined the offer ! '' 

The professed intention of Tlie Tatler, whose gay essays are very 
pleasant and its serious ones very instructive, was to expose the 
false arts of life, to ^^uU off the disguises of cunning, vanity, and 
ostentation, and to recommend simplicity in dress, discourse, and 
behavior. Steele, above all others, was the man best qualified for 
this sort of work. His vivacity, readiness of intellect, profound 
acquaintance with life in all its phases, and undeniable goodness of 
heart and intention made him just the j)erson to fill the office of 
periodical censor of manners. The Tatlers were penny papers, 
published three times a week. Two hundred and seventy-one num- 
bers appeared, after which Tlie TatJer no longer tattled.® '^It was 
through these,'" writes Prof. Morley, "and the daily Spectators 
which succeeded them, that the people of England really learned to 
read. "^ The few leaves of sound reason and fancy were but a light 
tax on uncultivated powers of attention. Exquisite grace and true 
kindliness, here associated mth familiar ways and common inci- 
dents of every-day life, gave many an honest man fresh sense of the 
best happiness that lies in common duties honestly performed." ® 

About two months after The Tatler ended Steele began Tlie Spec- 
tator, which has become one of the most famous names in the his- 
tory of British periodical literature. It is looked upon as an Eng- 
lish classic. In its rich jiages appeared the best things ever written 
by Steele and Addison.^ The seven inimitable articles of Steele 
which we reproduce in the present volume are all from The Spec- 
tator, and we think that every reader of sound sense and good taste 
will thank us for them. 

8 The first number of The Tatler is dated April 12, 1709 ; the last number, Januarys, 
1711— in all, 271 numbers, of which Steele wrote 164, 

"> We are glad to have the testimony of this learned English professor that from a na- 
tive of Ireland, scarcely two hundred years ago, '■'■the people of Englatid really learned to 
read.'' 
^ Morley "s " English Writers." 

9 The first number of The Spectator is dated March 1, 1711 ; the last, Dec. 20, 1714— in all, 
635 numbers, 240 of which were written by Steele, 274 by Addison, and the rest by others. 
The Spectcdor was ssued daily. 



Si}' Richard Steele. 93 

Encouraged by the remarkable success of The Spectator, Steele 
started TJie Guardian in the spring of 1713. It was a daily journal, 
and lived about eight months. Steele and Addison were the chief 
eontributors. Steele's entry, however, into Parliamentary life as 
a member for Stockbridge relaxed his efforts as an essayist ; and 
though he was afterwards concerned in other periodicals, neither 
his purse nor his reputation won much by them. For writing a 
pamphlet of a political character, entitled '' The Crisis," he was 
expelled from the House of Commons. But we cannot dwell at 
length upon the events of his life. 

On the accession of George I., Steele again found himself in 
favor. He was knighted in 1T15, and received several very lucra- 
tive appointments. 

It is truly lamentable to know that all the distresses and diflScul- 
ties which this distinguished writer experienced in his many re- 
verses of fortune had failed to teach him prudence. Towards the 
end of his life we find him plunged in debt, and poverty even star- 
ing him in the face. There is little doubt but that the retrospect 
of his past improvidence and folly, by agitating him with remorse 
and sorrow, produced a serious effect upon his constitution. Early 
in 1726 he was seized with a j)aralytic stroke, which deprived him 
of the free enjoyment of his intellectual faculties. In these 
unhappy circumstances the once jovial, light-hearted Sir Eichard 
Steele left London. His pecuniary distress, however, did not sub- 
vert his high moral principles, and before leaving London he sur- 
rendered all his property to his creditors. He retired to TVales, 
taking up his residence near Caermarthen. In this seclusion, sup- 
ported by the benevolence of his creditors, he lingered for nearly 
two years. He died on September .2, 1729. According to his own 
desire, he was buried privately, and in the quiet churchyard of 
Caermarthen rests all that is earthlv of Sir Eichard Steele. 

Steele was twice married. His second wife was the amiable and 
accomplished Miss Mary Scurrlock, a Welsh lady, to whom he was 
devotedly attached.'" 

It is the custom among a large class of English critics to place 
Addison as an essayist above Steele. Here we enter our solemn 
protest against any such arbitrary classification. Both were great 

10 This was the " dear Prue "' -who, by preserving some four hundred of her husband's 
letters, has enabled us to form truer ideas of the kind-hearted Steele than we could get 
from any other source. 



94 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

writers and inimitable essayists, but Addison is not necessarily the 
first because his social position was higher and because he was a 
native of England. Yet it appears these reasons — poor ones, in- 
deed—have induced many, to give him precedence to Steele. 

One of the first marks of true genius is originality. In this 
quality Steele's superiority is not to be questioned. Had Addison 
never lived, Steele would still have been a famous essayist, and Tlie 
Tatler and The Spectator would have lived, moved, and had their 
being. Steele originated those periodicals. Addison was merely a 
contributor. He, indeed, enriched Steele's Spectators. Steele him- 
self did the same. Without Steele there would have been no 
Spectator, and Addison, it is reasonable to conclude, would not 
to-day be known as an essayist to the literary world. " Tlie Tatler, 
Spectator, and Guardian,'' writes Prof. Morley, "were all of them 
Steele's journals, begun and ended by him, at his sole discretion. 
In these three he wrote 510 papers ; Addison, 369." " 

"Steele," says Hazlitt, "seems to have gone into his closet 
chiefly to set down what he observed out of doors. Addison seems 
to have spent most of his time in his study, and to have spun out 
and wire-drawn the hints which he borrowed from Steele, or took 
from nature, to the utmost. I am far from wishing to depreciate 
Addison's talents, but I am anxious to do justice to Steele, who 
was, I think, upon the whole a less artificial and more original writer. 
The humorous descriptions of Steele resemble loose skeletons, or 
fragments of a comedy ; those of Addison are rather comments on 
the original text." ^^ 

Steele's definition of a Christian was, " One who was always a 
benefactor with the mien of a receiver." Here he was writing Iiis 
own character, "of which," says a learned' critic, "the one fault 
was that he was more ready to- give than to receive, more promj)t to 
ascribe honors to others than to claim them for himself." ^^ 

His wit was fresh and natural. It came with no stinted flow. 
He wrote as he lived, freely and carelessly, scattering the coinage of 
his brain, as he did his guineas, with an unsparing hand. All who 
read his papers or his letters to Prue cannot help seeing the good 
heart of the rattle-brain shining out in every line. We can for- 
give, or at least forget, his tippling in taverns and his unthinking 

^' Morley's "English Writers.'' 

12 " Lectures on the English Comic Writers," lect. v. 

13 Morley's " English Writers." 



Sir Richard Steele. 95 

extravagance, bad as these were, in consideration of the loving 
touch with which he liandles the foibles of his neighbors, and the 
mirth without bitterness that flows from his gentle ^^en.'* 

^^ Steele," justly observes Dr. Allibone, ''was one of the most 
amiable and one of the most improvident of men. His precepts 
were far better than his practice. Often sinning, often repenting, 
always good-natured, and generally in debt, he multiplied troubles 
as few men will, and bore them better than most nien can." '^ 

THE SPECTATOR CLUB. 

" Ast alii sex 
Et plures uno conclamant ore." 

— JuY., Sat. vii. ver. 167. 

" Six more, at least, join their consenting voice." 

The first of our society is a gentleman of Worcestershire, of 
ancient descent, a baronet, his name Sir Roger de Ooverley. His 
great-grandfather was inventor of that famous country-dance which 
is called after him. All who know that shire are very well ac- 
quainted with the parts and merits of Sir Roger. He is a gentle- 
man that is very singular in his behavior, but his singularities 
proceed from his good sense, and are contradictions to the manners 
of the world only as he thinks the world is in the wrong. How- 
ever, this humor creates him no enemies, for he does nothing with 
sourness or obstinacy ; and his being unconfined to modes and 
forms makes him but the readier and more capable to please and 
oblige all who know him. When he is in town, he lives in Soho 
Square. ^^ It is said he keeps himself a bachelor by reason he was 
crossed in love by a perverse, beantif ul widow of the next county to 
him. Before this disappointment Sir Roger was what you call a 
fine gentleman, had often supped with my Lord Rochester and Sir 
George Etherege," fought a duel upon his first coming to town, 
and kicked Bully Dawson ^® in a public coffee-house for calling him 
youngster. But being ill-used by the above-mentioned widow, he 
was very serious for a year and a half; and though, his temper 

" Collier, " History of English Literature." 
^^ ''Dictionary of Authors." 
i« At that time the genteelest part of the town. 
^■^ Prominent personages in the time of Charles II. and James II. 

^s This fellow "was a noted sharper and swaggerer about town at the time here pointed 
out. 



96 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

being naturally joTial, he at last got over it, lie grew careless of 
himself, and never dressed afterwards. He continues to wear a 
coat and doublet of the same cut that were in fashion at the time 
of his repulse, which, in his merry humors, he tells us has been in 
and out twelve times since he first wore it. Sir Koger is now in 
his fifty-sixth 3'ear, cheerful, gay, and hearty ; keeps a good house 
both in town and country ; a great lover of mankind ; but there is 
such a mirthful cast in his behavior that he is rather beloved than 
esteemed. 

His tenants grow rich, his servants look satisfied, all the young 
women profess love to him, and the young men are glad of his 
company. TThen he comes into a house, he calls the servants by 
their names, and talks all the way up-stairs to a visit. I must not 
omit that Sir Eoger is a justice of the quorum; '^ that he fills the 
chair at a quarter session with great abilities, and, three months 
ago, gained universal applause by explaining a passage in the 
Game Act. 

The gentleman next in esteem and authority among us is another 
bachelor, who is a member of the Inner Temple,^" a man of great 
probity, wit, and understanding ; but he has chosen his place of 
residence rather to obey the direction of an old humorous father 
than in pursuit of his own inclinations. He was placed there to 
study the laws of the land, and is the most learned of any of the 
house in those of the stage. Aristotle and Longinus are much 
better understood by him than Littleton or Coke.'' The father 
sends up every post questions relating to marriage articles, leases, 
and tenures in the neighborhood, all which questions he agrees 
with an attorney to answer and take care of in the lumj^. He is 
studying the passions themselves when he should be enquiring into 
the debates among men which arise from them. He knows the 
argument of each of the orations of Demosthenes and Tully, but 
not one case in the reports of our own courts. Xo one ever took 
him for a fool, but none, except his intimate friends, know he has 



19 The term quoi'um arose from the •words used in the commission issued to certain 
special justices formerly appointed in England to enquire of and determine felonies 
and other misdemeanors, in which number it was directed that some particular justices, 
or one of them, should be always included, and that no business should be done without 
their presence, the commission commencing, Quorum aliqv£m 'vestrum. etc. — Burnll 

20 Inner Temple is o-.e of the Inns of court (or colleges) in which students of law reside 
and are instructed. — WJicn^on. 

21 Littleton's " Treatise on Tenures " has been annotated by Coke. 



Sir Richard Steele. 97 

a great deal of wit. This turn makes liim at once both disin- 
terested and agreeable. As few of his thoughts are drawn from 
business, they are most of them fit for conversation. His taste of 
books is a little too just for the age he lives in ; he has read all, but 
approves of very few. His familiarity with the customs, manners, 
actions, and writings of the ancients makes him a very delicate 
observer of what occurs to him in the present world. He is an 
excellent critic, and the time of the play is his hour of business. 
Exactly at five he passes through Xew Inn, crosses through Eussel 
Court, and takes a turn at Will's till the play begins ; he has his 
shoes rubbed and his periwig powdered at the barber's as you go 
into the Eose. It is for the good of the audience when he is at the 
play, for the actors have an ambition to please him. 

The person of next consideration is Sir Andrew Freeport, a mer- 
chant of great eminence in the city of London -, a joerson of indefa- 
tigable industry, strong reason, and great experience. His notions 
of trade are noble and generous, and (as every rich man has usually 
some sly way of jesting, which would make no great figure were he 
not a rich man) he calls the sea the British Jommon. He is 
acquainted with commerce in all its parts, and will tell you that it 
is a stupid and barbarous way to extend dominion by arms ; for 
true power is to be got by arts and industry. He will often argue 
that if this part of our trade were well cultivated, we should gain 
from one nation ; and if another, from another. I have heard him 
prove that diligence makes more lasting acquisitions than valor, 
and that sloth has ruined more nations than the sword. He 
abounds in several frugal maxims, among which the greatest 
favorite is, ^' A penny saved is a penny got." A general trader of 
good sense is j)leasanter company than a general scholar ; and Sir 
Andrew having a natural unaffected eloquence, the j)erspicuity of 
his discourse gives the same pleasure that wit would in another 
man. He has made his fortune himself, and says that England 
may be richer than other kingdoms by as plain methods as he 
himself is richer than other men ; though at the same time I can 
say this of him, that there is not a point in the comj^ass but blows 
home a ship in which he is an owner. 

Xext to Sir Andrew in the club-room sits Captain Sentry, a gen- 
tleman of great courage, good understanding, but invincible mo- 
desty. He is one of those that deserve very well, but are very 
awkward at putting their talents within the observation of such as 



q8 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

should take notice of them. He was some years a captain, and 
behaved himself with great gallantry in several engagements and at 
several sieges ; but, having a small estate of his own, and being next 
heir to Sir Roger, he has quitted a way of life in which no man 
can rise suitably to his merit who is not something of a courtier as 
well as a soldier, I have heard him often lament that in a pro- 
fession where merit is placed in so conspicuous a view impudence 
should get the better of modesty. When he has talked to this 
purpose, 1 never heard him make a sour expression, but frankly 
confess that he left the world because he was not fit for it. A 
strict honesty and an even, regular behavior are in themselves 
obstacles to him, that must ^oress through crowds who endeavor at 
the same end with himself — the favor of a commander. He will, 
however, in his way of talk, excuse generals for not disposing 
according to men's desert, or enquiring into it; for, says he, that 
great man who has a mind to help me has as many to break 
through to come at me as I have to come at him ; therefore he 
will conclude that a man who would make a figure, especially in a 
military way, must get over all false modesty, and assist his patron 
against the importunity of other pretenders by a proper assurance 
in his own vindication. He says it is a civil cowardice to be back- 
ward in asserting what you ought to expect, as it is a military fear 
to be slow in attacking when it is your duty. With this candor 
does the gentleman speak of himself and others. The same frank- 
ness runs through all his conversation. The military part of his 
life has furnished him with many adventures, in the relation of 
which he is very agreeable to the comj)any ; for he is never over- 
bearing, though accustomed to command men in the utmost degree 
below him ; nor ever too obsequious, from a habit of obeying men 
highly above him. 

But that our society may not appear a set of humorists, unac- 
quainted with the gallantries and pleasures of the age, we have 
among us the gallant Will Honeycomb, a gentleman who, according 
to his years, should be in the decline of his life ; but having ever 
been very careful of his person, and always had a very easy fortune, 
time has made but very little impression, either by wrinkles on his 
forehead or traces in his brain. His j^ei'son is well turned and of 
a good height. He is very ready at that sort of discourse with 
which men usually entertain women. He has all his life dressed 
very well, and remembers habits as others do men. He can smile 



Sir Richard Steele. 99 

when one speaks to him, and laughs easily. He knows the history 
of every mode, and can inform you from which of the French king's 
wenches our wives and daughters had this manner of curling their 
hair, that way of placing their hoods ; whose frailty was covered 
by such a sort of petticoat ; and whose vanity to show her foot 
made that part of the dress so short in such a year. In a word, 
all his conversation and knowledge has been in the female world. 
As other men of his age will take notice to you what such a minister 
said upon such and such an occasion, he will tell you, when the 
Duke of Monmouth "^"^ danced at court, such a woman was then 
smitten, another was taken with him at the head of his troop in 
the park. In all these important relations, he has ever about the 
same time received a kind glance or a blow of a fan from some 
celebrated beauty, mother of the present Lord Such-a-one. This 
way of talking of his very much enlivens the conversation among 
us of a more sedate turn ; and I find there is not one of the com- 
pany but myself — who rarely speak at all — ^but speaks of him as of 
that sort of man who is usually called a well bred, fine gentleman. 
To conclude his character, where women are not concerned he is an 
honest, worthy man. 

I cannot tell whether I am to account him whom I am next to 
speak of as one of our company, for he visits us but seldom ; but 
when he does, it adds to every man else a new enjoyment of himself. 
He is a clergyman, a very philosophic man, of general learning, 
great sanctity of life, and the most exact good breeding. He has 
had the misfortune to be of a very weak constitution, and, conse- 
quently, cannot accept of such cares and business as preferments in 
his function would oblige him to ; he is therefore, among divines, 
what a chamber-counsellor is among lawyers. The probity of his 
mind and the integrity of his life create him followers, as being 
eloquent or loud advances others. He seldom introduces the subject 
he speaks upon ; but we are so far gone in years that he observes, 
when he is among us, an earnestness to have him fall on some 
divine topic, which he always treats with much authority, as one 
who has no interest in this world, as one who is hastening to the 
object of all his wishes, and conceives hope from his decays and 
infirmities. These are my ordinary companions. 

22 Natural son of Charles the Secoad. He was beheaded at London in 1685. 



loo The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

L^TITIA AND DAPHNE ; OR, TH;E TRUE CHARMS OF A WOMAN. 

A FRIEND of mine has two daughters, whom I will call Laetitia 
and Daphne ; the former is one of the greatest beauties of the age 
in which she lives, the latter no way remarkable for any charms in 
her person. Upon this one circumstance of their outward form 
the good and ill of their lives seem to turn. Laetitia has not, from 
her very childhood, heard anything else but commendations of her 
features and comi:)lexion, by which means she is no other than 
nature made her — a very beautiful outside. The consciousness of 
her charms has rendered her insupportably vain and insolent 
towards all who have to do with her. Daphne, who was almost 
twenty before one civil thing had ever been said to her, found her- 
self obliged to acquire some accomplishments to make up for the 
want of those attractions which she saw in her sister. Poor Daphne 
was seldom submitted to in a debate wherein she was concerned ; 
her discourse had nothing to recommend it but the good sense of 
it, and she was always under a necessity to have very well consid- 
ered what she was to say before she uttered it ; while Laetitia was 
listened to with partiality, and approbation sat in the countenances 
of those she conversed with, before she communicated what she had 
to say. These causes have produced suitable effects, and Laetitia is 
as insipid a companion as Daphne is an agreeable one. Lsetitia 
confident of favor, has studied no arts to please; Daphne, despair-^ 
ing of any inclination towards her person, has depended only on 
her merit. Laetitia has always something in her air that is sullen, 
grave, and disconsolate. Daphne has a countenance that aj)pears 
cheerful, open, and unconcerned. A young gentleman saw Laetitia 
this winter at a play, and became her captive. His fortune was 
such that he wanted very little introduction to speak his sentiments 
to her father. The lover was admitted with the utmost freedom 
into the family, where a constrained behavior, severe looks, and 
distant civilities were the highest favors he could obtain of Laetitia; 
while Daphne used him with the good-humor, familiarity, and 
innocence of a sister, insomuch that he would often say to her, 
"Dear Daphne, were you but as handsome as Laetitia!" She 
received such language with that ingenuous and pleasing mirth 
which is natural to a woman without design. He still sighed in 
vain for Laetitia, but found certain relief in the agreeable conver- 
sation of Daplme. At length, heartily tired with the haughty im- 



Sir Richard Steele. loi 

pertinence of Lsetitia, and charmed with the repeated instances of 
good-humor he had observed in Daphne, he one day told the latter 
that he had something to say to her he hoped she would be pleased 
with. ^^ Faith, Daphne," continued he, ^^I am in love with you, 
and despise your sister sincerely." The manner of his declaring 
himself gave his mistress occasion for a very hearty laughter. '^ No/' 
says he, ^^I knew you would laugh at me, but I will ask your 
father." He did so; the father received his intelligence with no 
less joy than surprise, and was very glad he had now no care left 
but for his beauty, which he thought he could carry to market at 
his leisure. I do not know anything that has pleased me so much 
a great while as this conquest of my friend Daphne's. All her 
acquaintance congratulated her upon her chance-medley, and laugh 
^t that premeditating murderer, her sister. As it is an argument 
of a light mind to think the worse of ourselves for the imperfec- 
tions of our persons, it is equally below us to value ourselves upon 
the advantages of them. The female world seem to be almost in- 
■corrigibly gone astray in this particular ; for which reason I shall 
recommend the following extract out of a friend's letter "to the 
professed beauties, who are a people almost as unsutfejable as the 
professed wits : 

'^ Monsieur St. Evremond has concluded one of his essays with 
affirming that the last sighs of a handsome woman are not so 
much for the loss of her life as of her beauty. Perhaps this rail- 
lery is pursued too far, yet it is turned upon a very obvious remark, 
that woman's strongest passion is for her own beauty, and that she 
values it as her favorite distinction. From hence it is that all arts 
which pretend to improve it or preserve it meet with so general a 
reception among the sex. To say nothing of many false helps and 
contraband wares of beauty which are daily vended in tliis great 
mart, there is not a maiden gentlewoman of a good family, in any 
•county of South Britain, who has not heard of the virtues of May- 
dew, or is unfurnished with some recipe or other in favor of her 
complexion ; and I have known a physician of learning and sense, 
after eight years' study in the university, and a coarse of travels 
into most countries of Europe, owe the first raising of his fortunes 
to a cosmetic wash. 

" This has given me occasion to consider how so universal a dis- 
position in womankind, which springs from a laudable motive — the 

23 Mr. John Hughes. 



I02 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

desire of pleasing — and proceeds upon an opinion, not altogether 
groundless, that nature may be helped by art, may be turned to 
their advantage. And, methinks, it would be an acceptable service 
to take them out of the hands of quacks and pretenders, and to 
prevent their imposing upon themselves, by discovering to them 
the true secret and art of improving beauty. 

" In order to this, before I touch apon it directly, it will be nec- 
essary to lay down a few preliminary maxims, viz. : 

^^ That no woman can be handsome by the force of features alone, 
any more than she can be witty only by the help of speech ; 

'' That pride destroys all symmetry and grace, and affectation is a 
more terrible enemy to fine faces than the small-pox ; 

^^ That no woman is capable of being beautiful who is not incapa- 
ble of being false ; 

*^ And that what would be odious in a friend is deformity in a 
mistress. 

" From these few principles, thus laid down, it will be easy to 
prove that the true art of assisting beauty consists in embellishing 
the whole person by the proper ornaments of virtuous and commend- 
able qualities. By this help alone it is that those who are the fa- 
yorite work of nature — or, as Mr. Dry den expresses it, the porcelain 
clay of humankind — ^become animated, and are in a capacity of ex- 
erting their charms ; and those who seem to have been neglected 
by her, like models wrought in haste, are capable in a great mea- 
sure of finishing what she has left imperfect. 

" It is, methinks, a low and degrading idea of that sex, which was 
created to refine the joys and soften the cares of lisumanity by the 
most agreeable participation, to consider them merely as objects of 
sight. This is abridging them of their natural extent of power to 
put them upon a level with their picture at Kneller's. How much 
nobler is the contemplation of beauty, heightened by virtue, and 
commanding our esteem a.nd love, while it draws our observation ! 
How faint and spiritless are the charms of a coquette when com- 
pared with the real loveliness of Sophronia's innocence, piety, good- 
humor, and truth — virtues which add a new softness to her sex, 
and even beautify her beauty ! That agreeableness, which must 
otherwise have appeared no longer in the modest virgin, is now 
preserved in the tender mother, the prudent friend, and the faith- 
ful wife. Colors artfully spread upon canvas may entertain the 
eye, but not affect the heart ; and she who takes no care to add to 



Sir Richard Steele. 103 

the natural graces of her person any excelling qualities may be al- 
lowed still to amuse as a picture, but not to triumjDli as a beauty. 

" When Adam is introduced by Milton, describing Eve in Para- 
dise, and relating to the angel the impressions he felt upon seeing 
her at her first creation, he does not represent her, like a Grecian 
Venus, by her shape or features ; but by the lustre of her mind, 
which shone in them, and gave them their power of charming. 

" ' Grace was in all her steps, Heav'n in her eye 
In aU her gestures, dignity and love !' 

** Without this irradiating power, the proudest fair one ought to 
know, whatever her glass may tell her to the contrary, that her 
most perfect features are uninformed and dead. 

" I cannot better close this moral than by a short epitapli writ- 
ten by Ben Jonson, with a spirit which nothing could inspire but 
fcuch an object as I have been describing : 

' * Underneath this stone doth lie 
As much virtue as could die, 
Which when alive did vigor give 
To as much beauty as could live.' " 



AGE. 



Op all the impertinent wishes which we hear expressed in conver- 
sation, there is not one more unworthy a gentlemen, or a man of 
liberal education, than that of wishing one's self younger. It is a 
certain sign of a foolish or a dissolute mind, if we want our youth 
again only for the strength of bones and sinews which we once 
were masters of ; it is as absurd in an old man to wish for the 
strength of a youth as it would be in a young man to wish for the 
strength of a bull or a horse. These wishes are both equally out of 
nature, which should direct in all things that are not contradictory 
to justice, law, and reason. 

Age, in a virtuous person of either sex, carries in it an authority 
which makes it preferable to all the pleasures of youth ; if to be 
saluted, attended, or consulted with deference are instances of plea- 
sure, they are such as never fail a virtuous old age. In the enume- 
ration of the imperfections and advantages of the younger and 
later years of man, they are so near in their condition tliat me- 



I04 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

thinks it should be incredible we see so little commerce of kindness 
between them. If we consider youth and age with Tully, regarding 
the affinity to death, youth has many more chances to be nearer it than 
ao'e. What youth can say more than an old man, ^" He shall live till 
nio-ht " ? Youth catches distempers more easily, its sickness is more 
violent, and its recovery more doubtful. The youth, indeed, hopes 
for many more days ; so cannot the old man. The youth's hopes 
are ill-grounded ; for what is more foolish than to jDlace any confi- 
dence upon an uncertainty ? But the old man has not room so 
much as for hope ; he is still happier than the youth ; he has 
already enjoyed what the other does but hope for ; one wishes to 
live long, the other has lived long. But, alas ! is there anything in 
human life the duration of which can be called long ? There is 
nothinof, which must end, to be valued for its continuance. If 
hours, days, months, and years pass away, it is no matter Avhac 
hour, what day, what month, or what year we die. The applause 
of a good actor is due to him at whatever scene of the play he 
makes his exit. It is thus in the life of a man of sense ; a short 
life is sufficient to manifest himself a man of honor and virtue. 
When he ceases to be such, he has lived too long ; and while he is 
such it is of no consequence to him how long he shall be so, pro- 
vided he is so to his life's end. 



DEFINITION OF A FINE GENTLEMAN. 

" Omnis Aristippum decuit color, et status, et res." 

— HoR., 1 Ep. xvii. 23. 
" All fortune fitted Aristippus well." 

— Creech. 

The generality (the fair sex especially) have very false impres- 
sions of what should be intended when they say a ^^fine gentle- 
man." I have revolved this subject in my thoughts, and settled, 
as it were, an idea of that character in my own imagination. 

]^o man ought to have the esteem of the rest of the world for 
any actions which are disagreeable to those maxims which prevail 
as the standards of behavior in the country wherein he lives. 
What is opposite to the eternal rules of reason and good sense must 
be excluded from any place in the carriage of a well-bred man. 
When a gentleman speaks coarsely, he has dressed himself clean to 
no purpose. The clothing of our minds certainly ought to be 



Sir Richard Steele. 105 

regarded before that of our bodies. To betray in a man's talk a 
corrupt imagination is a much greater offence against the conver- 
sation of gentlemen than any negligence of dress imaginable. But 
this sense of the matter is so far from being received among people 
even of condition that Vocifer even passes for a fine gentleman. 
He is loud, liaughty, gentle, soft, lewd, and obsequious by turns, 
just as a little understanding and great impudence prompt him at 
the present moment. He passes among the silly part of our women 
for a man of wit, because he is generally in doubt. He contradicts 
with a slirug, and confutes with a certain sufficiency, in professing 
such and such a thing is above his capacity. What makes his 
character the j)leasanter is that he is a professed deluder of women, 
and because the empty coxcomb has no regard to anything that is 
of itself sacred and inviolable. I have heard an unmarried lady of 
fortune say, ^' It is pity so fine a gentleman as Vocifer is so great 
an atheist." The crowds of such inconsiderable creatures that 
infest all places of assembling every reader will have in his eye 
from his own observation ; but would it not be worth considering 
what sort of figure a man who formed himself upon those principles 
among: us which are a^Teeable to the dictates of honor and relio-ion 
would make in the familiar and ordinary occurrences of life ? 

I hardly have observed any one fill his several duties of life better 
than Ignotus. All the under parts of his behavior, and such as 
are exposed to common observation, have their rise in him from 
great and noble motives. A firm and unshaken expectation of 
another life makes him become this ; humanity and good nature, 
fortified by the sense of virtue, has the same effect upon him as 
the neglect of all goodness has upon many otliers. Being firmly 
established in all matters of importance, that certain inattention 
which makes men's actions look easy appears in him with greater 
beauty; by a thorough contempt of little excellences, he is per- 
fectly master of them. Tliis temper of mind leaves him under no 
necessity of studying his air, and he has this peculiar distinction, 
that his negligence is unaffected. 

He that can work himself into a pleasure in considering this 
being as an uncertain one, and think to reap an advantage by its 
discontinuance, is in a fair way of doing all things with a graceful 
unconcern and a gentleman-like ease. Such a one does not behold 
his life as a short, transient, perplexing state, made up of trifling 
pleasures and great anxieties, but sees it in quite another light; his 



io6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

griefs are momentai-y and his joys immortal. Eeflection upon 
death is not a gloomy and sad thought of resigning evervthing that 
he delights in, but it is a short night followed by an endless dav. 
"What I would here contend for is that the more Tirtuous the man 
is, the nearer hs will naturally be to the character of genteel and 
agreeable. A man whose fortune is plentiful shows an ease in his 
countenance and confidence in his behavior which he that is 
under wants and difficulties cannot assume. It is thus with the 
state of the mind; he that governs his thoughts with the everlasting 
rules of reason and sense must have something so inexpressibly 
graceful in his words and actions that eyery circumstance must 
become him. The change of persons or things arotmd him does not 
at all alter his situation, but he looks disinterested in the occur- 
rences with which others are distracted, because the greatest pur- 
pose of his life is to maintain an indifference both to it and all its 
enjoyments. In a word, to be a fine gentleman is to be a generous 
-and a brave man. AVhac can make a man so much in constant 
good humor, and shine, as we call it, than to be supported bv what 
can never fail him. and to believe that whatever happens to him 
was the best thing that cotild possibly befaU him, or else He on 
whom it depends would not have permitted it to have befallen him 
ataU! 



SCA^^)AIJ-BEAilER3 BAD HEAETED. 

" Quantum a renim turpitudine abes, tantum te a verbomm Kbertate sejimgas " 

— Trix. 
" "SVe shoTild be as careful of our words as our actions, and as far from speaking 
as from doing ilL'' 

It is a certain sign of an ill heart to be inclined to defamation. 
They who are harmless and innocent can have no gratification that 
way ; but it ever arises from a neglect of what is laudable in a 
man's self and an impatience of seeing it in another. Else whv 
should virtue provoke ? Why should beauty displease in such a 
degree that a man given to scandal never lets the mention of either 
pass by him without offering something to the diminution of it ? 
A lady the other day at a visit, being attacked somewhat rudely by 
one whose own character has been very roughly treated, answered 
a great deal of heat and intemperance very calmly : *' Good madam, 
spare me, who am none of your match : I speak ill of nobodv, and 



\ 



Sir Richard Steele. 107 

it is a new thing to me to be spoken ill of." Little minds think 
fame consists in the number of votes they have on their side among 
the multitude, whereas it is really the inseparable follower of good 
and worthy actions. Fame is as natural a follower of merit as 
shadow is of a body. It is true, when crowds press upon you, this 
shadow cannot be seen, but Avhen they separate from around you 
it will again appear. The lazy, the idle, and the f roward are the 
persons who are most pleased with the little tales which pass about 
the town to the disadvantage of the rest of the world. Were it not 
for the pleasure of speaking ill, there are numbers of people who 
are too lazy to go out of their own houses, and too ill-natured to 
open their lips in conversation. It was not a little diverting the 
other day to observe a lady reading a post-letter, and at these words, 
"After all her airs, he has heard some story or other, and the 
match is broke off," give orders in the midst of her reading. Put to 
the horses. That a young woman of merit has missed an advanta- 
geous settlement was news not to be delayed, lest somebody else 
should have given her malicious acquaintance that satisfaction 
before her. The unwillingness to receive good tidings is a quality 
as inseparable from a scandal-bearer as the readiness to divulge 
bad. But, alas ! how wretchedly low and contemptible is that state 
of mind that cannot be pleased but by what is the subject of 
lamentation. This temper has ever been in the highest degree 
odious to gaMant spirits. The Persian soldier who was heard 
reviling Alexander the G-reat was well, admonished by his ofl&cer : 
" Sir, you are paid to fight against Alexander, and not to rail at 
him. " 

Cicero, in one of his pleadings, defending his client from general 
scandal, says very handsomely, and with much reason : " There are 
many who have particular engagements to the prosecutor ; there 
are many who are known to have ill-will to him for whom I appear; 
there are many who are naturally addicted to defamation, and 
envious of any good to any man, who may have contributed to 
spread reports of this kind; for nothing is so swift as scandal, 
nothing is more easily sent abroad, nothing received with more 
welcome, nothing diffuses itself so universally. I shall not desire 
that of any report to our disadvantage has any ground for it, you 
would overlook or extenuate it ; but if there be anything advanced 
without a person who can say whence he had it, or which is attested 
by one who forgot who told him it, or who had it from one of so 



io8 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

little consideration that he did not then think it worth his notice — 
all such testimonies as these, I know, you will think too slight to 
have any credit against the innocence and honor of your fellow- 
citizen." When an ill report is traced, it very often vanishes among 
such as the orator has here recited. And how" despicable a creature 
must that be who is in pain for what passes among so frivolous a 
people ! There is a town in Warwickshire of good note, and for- 
merly pretty famous for much animosity and dissension, the chief 
families of which have now turned all their whispers, backbitings, 
envies, and private malices into mirth and entertainment, by means 
of a peevish old gentlewoman known by the title of the Lady 
Bluemantle. This heroine had for many years together outdone 
the whole sisterhood of gossips in invention, quick utterance, and 
unprovoked malice. This good body is of a lasting constitution, 
though extremely decayed in her eyes and decrepit in her feet. 
The two circumstances of being always at home from her lameness, 
and very attentive from her blindness, make her lodgings the recep- 
tacle of all that passes in town, good or bad; bat for the latter she 
seems to have the better memory. There is another thing to be 
noted of her, which is that, as it is usual with old joeople, she has a 
livelier memory of things which passed when she was very young 
than of late year.s. Add to all this, that she does not only not love 
anybody, but she hates everybody. The statue in Eome does 
not serve to A^ent malice half so well as this old lady does to disap- 
point it. She does not know the author of anything that is told 
her, but can readily repeat the matter itself ; therefore, though she 
exposes all the whole town, she offends no one body in it. She is 
so exquisitely restless and peevish that she quarrels with all about 
her, and sometimes in a freak will instantly change her habitation. 
To indulge this humor, she is led about the grounds belonging to 
the same house she is in, and the persons to whom she is to remove 
being in the plot, and ready to receive her at her own chamber 
again. At stated times the gentlewoman at whose house she sup- 
poses she is at the time is sent for to quarrel with, according to 
her common custom. When they have a mind to drive the jest, she 
is immediately urged to that degree, that she will board in a family 
"with which she has never yet been; and away she will go this 
instant, and tell them all that the rest have been saying of them. 
By this means she has been an inhabitant of every house in the 
place without stirring from the same habitation ; and the many 



Sir Richard Steele, 109 

stories which everybody furnishes her with to favor that deceit 
make her the general intelHgencer of the town of all that can be 
said by one woman against another. Thus groundless stories die 
away/ and sometimes truths are smothered under the general word, 
when they have a mind to discountenance a thing : Oh I that is in 
my Lady Bluemantle's memoirs. 

Whoeyer receives impressions to the disadvantage of others without 
examination is to be had in no other credit for intelligence than 
this good Lady Bluemantle, w^ho is subjected to have her ears 
imposed upon for want of other helps to better information. Add 
to this that Ooher scandal-bearers suspend the use of these faculties 
which she has lost rather than apply them to do justice to their 
neighbors, and I think, for the service of my fair readers, to 
acquaint them that there is a voluntary Lady Bluemantle at every 
visit in town. 



FIDELIA; OR, THE DUTIFUL DAUGHTER. 

"Tibi scriptus, matrona, hbellus." 

— Mar 

" A book the chastest matron may peruse." 

She who shall lead the small, illustrious number of my female 
heroines shall be the amiable Fidelia. 

Before I enter upon the j^articular parts of her character, it is 
necessary to preface that she is the only child of a decrepit father, 
whose life is bound up in hers. This gentleman has used Fidelia 
from her cradle with all the tenderness imaginable, and has viewed 
her growing perfections with the partiality of a parent, that soon 
thought her accomplished above the children of all other men, but 
never thought she was come to the utmost improvement of which 
she herself was capable. This fondness has had very happy effects 
upon his own happiness, for she reads, she dances, she sings, uses 
her spinet and lute to the utmost perfection ; and the lady's use 
of all these excellences is to divert the old man in his easy-chair 
when he is out of the pangs of a chronical distemper. Fidelia is 
now in the twenty-third year of her age ; but the application of 
many lovers, her vigorous time of life, her quick sense of all that is 
truly gallant and elegant in the enjoyment of a plentiful ;fortune, 
are not able to draw her from the side <A her good old father. 

Certain it is that there is no kind of affection so pure and angel- 



no The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

ic as that of a father to a daughter. He beholds her both with and 
without regard to her sex. In love to our wives there is a desire, to 
our sons there is ambition ; but in that to our daughters there is 
something which there are no words to express. Her life is design- 
ed wholly domestic, and she is so ready a friend and companion 
that everything that passes about a man is accompanied with the 
idea of her presence. Her sex also is naturally so much exposed to 
hazard, both as to fortune and to innocence, that there is, perhaps, 
a new cause of fondness arising from that consideration also. None 
but fathers can have a true sense of these sort of pleasures and sen- 
sations ; but my familiarity with the father of Fidelia makes me 
let drop the words which I have heard him speak, and observe 
upon his tenderness toward her. 

Fidelia, on her part, as I was going to say, as accomplished as 
she is, with all her beauty, wit, air, and mien, employs her whole 
time in care and attendance upon her father. How have I been 
charmed to see one of the most beauteous women the age has pro- 
duced on her knees helping on an old man's slipper ! Her filial re- 
gard for him is what she makes her diversion, her business, and 
her glory. When she was asked by a friend of her deceased mother 
to admit of the courtship of her son, she answered that she had a 
great respect and gratitude to her for the overture in behalf of one 
so near to her, but that during her father's life she should admit 
into her heart no value for anything that should interfere with her 
endeavor to make his remains of life as happy and easy as could be 
expected in his circumstances. 

When the general crowd of female youth are consulting their 
glasses, preparing for balls, assemblies, or plays, for a young lady 
who could be regarded among the foremost in those j^l^ces, either 
for her person, wit, fortune, or conversation, and yet contemn all 
these entertainments to sweeten the heavy hours of a decrepit pa- 
rent, is a resignation truly heroic. Fidelia performs the duty of a 
nurse with all the beauty of a bride ; nor does she neglect her per- 
son because of her attendance on him, when he is too ill to receive 
company, to whom she may make an appearance. 

Fidelia, who gives up her youth, does not think it any sacrifice to 
add to it the spoiling of her dress. Her care and exactness in her 
habit convince her father of the alacrity of her mind, and she has 
of all women the best foundation for affecting the praise of a seem- 
ing negligence. What adds to the entertainment of the good old 



Sir Richard Steele, 1 1 1 

man is that Fidelia, wliere merit and fortune cannot be overlooked 
by epistolary lovers, reads over the accounts of her conquests, plays 
on her spinet the gayest airs, to intimate to him the pleasures she 
despises for his sake. 

Those who think themselves the patterns of good breeding and 
gallantrv would be astonished to hear that in those intervals when 
the old gentleman is at ease and can bear company, there are at 
his house, in the most regular order, assemblies of people of the high- 
est merit, where there is conversation without mention of the faults 
of the absent, benevolence between men and women without pas- 
sion, and the highest sttbjects of morality treated of as a nattiral and 
accidental discourse ; all which is owing to the genius of Fidelia, 
who at once makes her father's way to another world easy, and 
herself capable of being an honor to his name in this. 



A QUAKER IX A STAGE-COACH. 

''Qui, aut tempus quid postulet non videt, aut plura loquitur, aut se ostentat, 
aut eorum qiiibuscum est rationem non habet, is ineptus esse dicitur. '' 

— TULL. 

*' That man is guilty of impertinence who considers not the circumstances of 
time, or engrosses the conversation, or makes himself the subject of his dis- 
course, or pays no regard to the company he is in." 

Havixg notified to my good friend Sir that I would set out 

for London the next day, his horses were ready at the appointed 
hour in the evening, and, attended by one of his grooms, I arrived 
at the countv town at twilio;ht, in order to be readv for the stao:e- 
coach the day following. As soon as we arrived at the inn, the 
servant who waited npon me enqtiired of the chamberlain in my 
hearing what company he had for the coach. The fellow answered, 
Miss Betty Arable, the gxeat fortune, and the widow, her mother : 
a recruiting officer, who took a place because they were to go; 
young Squire Quickset, her cousin, that her mother wished her to 
be married to ; and Ephraim, the Quaker, her guardian. I observed 
bv what he had said that accordins^ to his office he dealt much in 
intelligence, and doubted not but there was some foundation for 
his reports of the company. 

The next mornins; at davbreak we were all called, and I, who 
know my own natural shyness, and endeavor to be as little liable to 
be disputed with as possible, dressed immediately, that I might make 



112 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

110 one wait. The first preparation for our setting out was that tlie 
captain's half -pike was placed near the coachman, and a drum behind 
the coach. In the meantime the drnmmer, referring to the cajDtain's 
equipage, was very loud that none of the captain's things should 
be placed so as to be spoiled, upon which the cloak-bag was fixed 
in the seat of the coach ; and the captain himself, according to a 
freqnent though invidious behavior of military men, ordered his 
man to look sharp that none but one of the ladies would have the 
place he had taken fronting the coach-box. 

^Q were in some little time fixed in our seats, and sat with that 
dishke which people not too good-uatured usually conceive of each 
other at first sight. The coach jumbled us insensibly into some 
sort of familiarity, and we had not moved above two miles when 
the widow asked the captain what success he had in his recruiting. 
The ojfficer, with a frankness he believed very gi-aceful, told her 
'•'that indeed he had but very little luck, and had suffered much 
by desertion, therefore should be glad to end his warfare in the 
service of her or her fair daughter. In a word,'^ continued he, *• I 
am a soldier, and to be plain is my character. You see me, madam, 
young, sound, and impudent : take me yourself, widow, or give me 
to her; I will be wholly at your disposal. I am a soldier of for- 
tune, ha ! " 

This was followed by a vain laugh of his own, and a deep silence 
of all the rest of the comj^any. 

*^Come,''* said he, *• resolve upon it; we will make a wedding" at 
next town; we will awake this j^leasant companion who is fallen 
asleep to be the brideman, and," gi^ng the Quaker a clap on the 
knee, he concluded, ^'this sly saint, who, I will warrant, under- 
stands what is what as well as you or I, widow, shall give the bride 
as father." 

The Quaker, who happened to be a man of smartness, answered : 
"Friend, I take it in good part that thou hast given me the 
authority of a father over this comely and virtuous child ; and I 
must assure thee that if I have the o^ivins: her, I shall not bestow 
her on thee. Thy mirth, friend, savoreth of folly ; thou art a 
person of a light mind ; thy drum is a type of thee : it soundeth 
because it is empty. Yerily, it is not from thy fulness but thy 
emptiness that thou hast spoken this day. Friend, friend, Ave have 
hired this coach in partnership with thee, to carry us to the great 
city; we cannot go any other way. This worthy mother must hear 



Sir Richard Steele. 113 

thee if tlioii wilt needs utter thy follies — vve cannot help it, friend, 
I say ; if thou wilt, we must hear thee ; but if thou wert a man of 
understanding, thou wouldst not take advantage of thy courageous 
countenance to abash us children of peace. Thou art, thou sayest, 
a soldier ; give quarter to us, who cannot resist thee. Why didst 
thou fleer at our friend, who feigned himself asleep and said 
nothing ? But how dost thou know what he containeth ? If thou 
speakest improper things in the hearing of this virtuous young 
virgin, consider it is an outrage against a distressed person that 
cannot get from thee; to speak indiscreetly what we are obliged to 
hear, by being hasped up with thee in this public vehicle, is in 
some degree assaulting on the high-road." 

Here Ehpraim paused, and the captain, with an unhappy and 
uncommon impudence, which can be convicted and support itself 
at the same time, cries : '' Faith, friend, I thauk thee ; I should have 
beena little impertinent if thou hadst not reprimanded me. Come, 
thou art, I see, a smoky old fellow, and I will be very orderly the 
ensuing part of my journey. I was going to give myself airs, but, 
ladies, I beg pardon." 

The captain was so little out of humor, and our company was so 
far from being soured by this little ruffle, that Ephraim and he took 
a particular delight in being agreeable to each other for the future, 
and assumed their different provinces in the conduct of the com- 
pany. Our reckonings, apartments, and accommodation fell un- 
der Ephraim ; and the captain looked to all • disputes on the road, 
as the good behavior of our coachman and the right we had of 
taking place as going to London of all vehicles coming from 
thence. The occurrences we met with were ordinary, and very 
little happened which could entertain by the relation of them ; but 
when I considered the company we were in, I took it for no 
small good fortune that the whole journey was not spent in im- 
pertinences, which to the one part of us might be an entertain- 
ment, to the other a suffering. What, therefore, Ephraim said 
when we were almost arrived at London had to ma an air not only 
of good understanding, but good breeding. Upon the young lady's 
expressing her satisfaction in the journey, and declaring how 
delightful it had been to her, Ephraim delivered himself as 
follows: ^' There is no ordinary part of human life which ex- 
presseth so much a good mind and a right inward man as his be- 
havior upon meeting with strangers, especially such as may seem 



114 '^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

the most unsuitable companions to him. Such a man, when he 
falleth in the way with persons of simjolicity and innocence, how- 
ever knowing he may be in the ways of men, will not vaunt himself 
thereof, but will the rather hide his superiority to them, that he may 
not be painful unto them. My good friend,'' continued he, turning 
to the officer, '' thee and I are to part by and by, and perad venture 
we may never meet again ; but be advised by a jDlain man: modes 
and apparel are but trifles to the real man, therefore do not think 
such a man as thyself terrible for thy garb, nor such a one as me 
contemptible for mine. When two such as thee and I meet, with 
affections as we ought to have toward each other, thou shouldst 
rejoice to see my peaceful demeanor, and I should be glad to see 
thy strength and ability to protect me in it." 



LETTERS FROM SIR RICHARD STEELE TO HIS WIFE 

Cheistmas Day." 
Deak Prue : I went the other day to see Betty " at Chelsea, 
who represented to me, in her pretty language, '^•' that she seemed 
helpless and friendless, without anybody's taking notice of her at 
Christmas, when all the children but she and two more were with 
their relations.*' I have invited her to dinner to-dav, with one of 
the teachers, and they are here now in the room, Betty and Moll 
very noisy and pleased together. Bess goes back again, as soon as 
she has dined, to Chelsea. I have stayed in to get a very advanta- 
geous affair despatched ; for, I assure you, I love money at present 
as well as your ladyship, and am entirely yours. 

I told Betty I had writ to you, and she made me open the letter 
again and give her humble duty to her mother, and desire to 
know when she shall have the honor to see her in town. She gives 
h<3r love to Mrs. Bevans and all her cousins. 

Richard Steele. 

[Undated.] 
My Dearest Prue : I have yours of the Tth instant, which 
turns wholly upon my taking care of my health, and advice to for- 
bear embarking too deeply in public matters, which you enforce by 
reminding me of the ingratitude I have met with. I have as quick 

24 1716. 25 His Uttle daughter 



I 



Sir Richard Steele, 115 

sense of the ill-treatment I have received as is consistent with keep- 
ing up my own spirit and good-humor. Whenever I am a malcon- 
tent, I will take care not to be a gloomy one, but hope to keej^ 
some stings of wit and humor in my own defence. I am talking to 
my ^vife, and therefore may speak my heart and the vanity of it. 
I know, and you are witness, that I have served the royal family 
with an unreserveduess due only to Heaven, and I am now (I thank 
my brother Whigs) not possessed of twenty shillings fi'om the fa- 
vor of the court. The playhouse it had been barbarity to deny at 
the players' request, and therefore I do not allow it a favor. But I 
banish the very memory of these things, nor will I expect anything 
but what I must strike out of myself. By Tuesday's post I think I 
shall be able to guess when I shall leave the town and turn all my 
thoughts to finish my comedy.^ ^ You will find I have got so much 
constancy and fortitude as to live my own way (within the rules of 
good breeding and decency) wherever I am ; for I will not sacri- 
fice your husband, and the father of the poor babes, to any one's 
humor in the world. But to provide for and do you good is all 
my ambition. 

I have a list of twenty-one leases for the setting out £199 8s. yer 
annum, I have not yet heard of Mr. Philips. I am, dear Prue, 
ever yours. Eichaed Steele. 

Hampto:n- Couet, March 16, 1716-17. 
Dear Prue : If you have written anything to me which I 
should have received last night, I beg your pardon that I cannot 
answer it till the next post. The House of Commons will be very 
busy the next week ; and I had many things, public and private, 
for which I wanted four-and-twenty hours' retirement, and there- 
fore came to visit your son. I came out of town yesterday, being 
Friday, and shall return to-morrow. Your son, at the present wi'it- 
ing, is mighty well employed in tumbling on the floor of the room 
and sweeping the sand with a feather. He grows a most delight- 
ful child, and very full of play and spirit. He is also a very great 
scholar : he can read his primer, and I have brought down my 
Virgil. He makes most shrewd remarks upon the pictures. We 
are very intimate friends and play-fellows. He begins to be very 
ragged ; and I hope I shall be pardoned if I equip him with new 

26 If this was his " Conscious Lovers," it remained unfinished tfll 1721. 



1 1 6 The- Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

clothes and frocks, or what Mrs. Evans and I shall think for his 
service. I am, dear Prue, ever yours, 

EicHARD Steele. 



March ^^, 1717. 

My Dearest Prue : I have received yours, wherein you give me 
the sensible affliction of letting me know of the continual pain in 
your head. I could not meet with necessary advice ; but, accord- 
ing to the descriptions you give me, I am confident washing your 
head in cold water will cure you — I mean, having water poured on 
your head, and rubbed with a hand, from the crown of your head 
to the nape of your neck. When I lay in your place and on your 
pillow, I assure you, I fell into tears last night, to think that my 
charaiing little insolent might be then awake and in pain, and took 
it to be a sin to go asleep. 

For this tender passion towards you, I must be contented that your 
Prueship will condescend to call yourself my well-wisher. I am 
going abroad, and write before I go out, lest accidents should hap- 
pen to prevent my writing at all. If I can meet with further advice 
for you, I will send it in a letter to Alexander. I am, dear Prue, 
ever yours, 

EicFARD Steele. 



JONATHAN SWIFT, D.D, 

** The greatest wit of all time. "^—Thackeray. 

* ' He knew, almost beyond any man, the purity, the extent, the precision of 
the English language." — Blair. 

" The most agreeable companion, the truest friend, and the greatest genius of 
his age." — Addison. 

' ' O Jonathan I of merry fame, 
As swift in fancy as in name." 

JONATHAN SWIFT, one of the most remarkable men in the 
history of literature, was born on November the 30th, 1667, at 
Hoey's Court, Dublin — ^^that renowned city," as he afterwards 
wrote, ^' where I had the honor to draw my first breath." His 
mother was poor, and he was ushered into the world about seven 
months after his father's death. It is related that his nurse taught 
the future Dean to spell at three years of age, and that " at five 
he was able to read any chapter in the Bible." In his sixth year 
Jonathan was sent by his uncle, Godwin Swift, to the school at 
Kilkenny, where he remained for eight years. 

In 1682 he was admitted within the historic walls of Trinity 
•College, Dublin. Young Swift first showed his wit and strong 
sense by his repugnance to the obscure, antiquated jargon wliich 
then filled the works on logic pursued in the undergraduate course. 
A logician by nature, he could well afford to despise the limping, 
stupid ways of the musty old books. The examination day came. 
The solemn professors asked hard questions. Swift refused to reply 
to the senseless jargon propounded to him. He was warned to 
study logic and to come before the grave faculty on a future 
occasion. But Jonathan, neglecting nearly everything else, re- 
solutely bent his mind to poetry and history. Again came around 
the day of trial. We shall let another tell what happened : 

" In 1685, in the great hall of Dublin University, the pro- 
fessors engaged in examining for the bachelor's degree enjoyed a 
singular spectacle. A poor scholar, odd, awkward, with hard blue 

eyes, an orphan, friendless, poorly supported by the charity of an 

117 



1 18 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland, 

uncle, liaying once failed before to take liis degree on account of his 
ignorance of logic, had come up again "without having condescended 
to read logic. When the argumentation came on, the proctor was 
obhged ^to reduce his replies into syllogism.' He was asked how 
he could reason well without rules. He replied that he did reason 
pretty well without them. This folly shocked them ; yet he was 
received, though barely, sjpeciali gratia,^ says the register, and 
the professors went away, doubtless with pitying smiles, lamenting 
the feeble brain of Jonathan Swift I '' * Thus by collegiate sophists 
and pedagogues the future renowned author of " GuUivei-'s Trav- 
els" and ^'The Tale of a Tub'' was regarded as little short of a 
dowmvight blockhead.^ It is but fair to add, however, that Swift 
himself was not satisfied with his college work. He resolved to 
make up for any lost time, and for the next seven years it is said 
he studied about eight hours a day. 

By the death of his uncle, Godwin, in 1688, young Swift was 
flung U23on the world. He went to England to see his jDOor mother, 
with whom he remained for some months. She advised him to 
make his circumstances known to Sir "William Temj)le, one of the 
ablest and most scholarly men of his day. Temple was married to 
one of her relatives. Jonathan did as he was advised, and the re- 
sult was that he became Sir Wilham Temple's private secretary. 
Here he met some of the greatest men of his day — men wha 
have since passed into history. The young Irishman was intro- 
duced to King William III., who not only showed him how to eat 
asparagus after the Dutch fashion — stalks and all — but even offered 
to make him ca^^tain of a troop of horse, a position that Swift 
politely refused. This not too happy jDortion of the famous Dean's 
life is thus humorously sketched by a late writer : 

^'It was at Shene and at Moor Park, with a salary of twenty 
pounds [8100], and a dinner at the uj^per servants' table, that this 
great and lonely Swift passed a ten years' apprenticeship^, wore a 
cassock that was not a livery, bent down a knee as proud as Luci- 
fer's to supplicate my lady's good graces, or ran on his honor's er- 
rands. It was here, as he was writiug at Temple's table or follow- 

1 By a special favor, 

- Taine, " History of English Literature. "" 

2 The accounts of Swiff s college career are so varioTis and contradictory that it is no 
easy matter to get at the real truth. We belieTC many of his English and Scotch bio- 
graphers have, in this connection, done the illustrious author of " Giilliver" great in— 
justice, not to say slandered him. See his life by Thomas Roscoe. 



Jo7iathan Swift ^ D,D. 119 

ing his patron's walk, that he saw and heard the men who had 
governed the great world ; measured himself with them, looking 
lip from his silent cover ; gauged their brains, weighed their wits, 
turned them and tried them and marked them. Ah ! what plati- 
tudes he must have heard ; what feeble jokes ! what pompous 
commonplaces ! What small men they must have seemed, under 
those enormous periwigs, to the swarthy, uncouth, silent Irish sec- 
retary ! I wonder whether it ever struck Temple that the Irishman 
was his master ? I suppose that dismal conviction did not present 
itself under the ambrosial wig, or Temple could never have lived 
with Swift. Swift sickened, rebelled, left the service, ate humble- 
pie, and came back again ; and so for ten years went on gathering 
learning, swallowing corn, and submitting with a stealthy rage to 
his fortune." * 

Swift entered Oxford University, and, after a few weeks' study, 
received the degree of M.A. In 1695 he took orders in the Episco- 
pal Church. His first appointment was to the humble living of 
Kilroot, in the diocese of Connor. On Temple's death he became 
the literary executor of his old jDatron, and prepared numerous 
works for the press. He expected preferment in the English 
Church. With that object in view he wrote to the king, and the 
Earl of Romney promised to assist him. Of that nobleman Swift 
afterwards wrote : *'The Earl of Eomney, who professed much 
friendship, 2:)romised to second my petition, but as he was an old, 
vicious, illiterate rake, without any sense of truth or honor, he said 
not a word of it to the king." 

At length, disgusted with things generally, Swift accepted the 
post of chaplain to the Earl of Berkeley, and accompanied him to 
Ireland. The deanery of Derry soon became vacant. The young 
minister applied for it. He was told that the good- will of the 
bishop and a bribe of $5,000 were necessary to get the position. 
He asked the Earl of Berkeley if this was so. The nobleman 
assured him it was. ^^ Then," exclaimed the honest and indignant 
Swift, '^'^may God confound you both for a couple of rascals ! " 

In 1699 he was appointed rector of Augher and vicar of Laracor. 
Here Protestants were very scarce. Swift, however, gave notice 
that during Lent he would read the prayers in church on Wednes- 
days and Fridays. When the first evening came he found no one 
present but Eoger Cox, the parish clerk. IS'othing surprised, the 

* Thackeray, " English Humorists of the Eighteenth Century.'* 



I20 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

new rector ascended the desk and gravely began : ^^ Dearly beloved 
Koger, the Scripture moveth you and me in sundry places," and so 
proceeded to the end of the service. 

Swift had reached his thirty-fourth year when he took his place 
in the front rank of i^olitics by writing a pamjohlet on the Whig 
side. His ^^en was the lever by which he meant to raise Jonatlian 
to the pinnacle of clerical or political greatness. '^Against all 
comers/'' says Coppee, ^' he stood the Goliath of pamphleteers in the 
reign of Queen Anne, and there arose no David who could slay 
him.*' In 1704 appeared his extraordinary '^'Tale of a Tub."^ It 
is the wildest and wittiest of his polemical works. 

He now began to measure his own j)ower. The politicians courted 
and feared his powerful pen more than if it were ten thousand 
swords. He treated lords and dukes as if he were more than one 
himself. For a political article Harley, the Prime Minister, sent 
him a bank-bill. Swift was insulted at being taken for a paid 
man. He instantly demanded an apology. It was given. He 
then wrote in his journal: ''I have taken Mr. Harley into favor 
again." 

On one occasion, St. John, Secretary of State, looked coldly on 
the author of ^'The Tale of a Tub." He was rebuked without 
delay. ^* I warned him," writes Swift, '^ never to appear cold to 
me; for it was what I would hardly bear from a crowned head." 
St. John excused himself, saying that several nights at " business 
and one at drinking" made him seem ill-humored. 

*OIr. Secretary," writes Swift on another occasion, ^^ told me 
the Duke of Buckingham had been talking to him much about me 
and desired my acquaintance. I answered it could not be, for that 
he had not made sufficient advances.^ Then the Duke of Shrews- 
bury said he thought the duke was not used to make advances. I 
said I could not helj) that ; for I always expected advances in pro- 
portion to men's quality, and more from a duke than other men." 
Thus the dignity and haughty manners of Swift comjoelled even 
the great to bend before him. In the Prime Minister's drawing- 
room he would go and speak to some obscure person, forcing lords 
to do the same. 

In 1713 Dr. Swift was appointed dean of St. Patrick's, Dublin. 
At first his native city treated him badly. The mob threw mud at 

5 It was first published anonymously. 

® The reader must not understand this as referring to money. 



Jonathan Swift^ D.D. 121 

the Dean, and he was insulted by the aristocracy. He liyed, how- 
eyer, to see these feehngs vanish as the mists of morning. 

The sad sufferings of his country each year more deeply touched 
him. In his heart he hated the corruption of the English court 
and the unmatched tyranny of England. An occasion soon offered 
when those feelings, long welled up, burst forth like the dread roar 
of a mighty cataract. In 1724 an Englishman, named William 
Wood, obtained a patent from the Government empowering him to 
coin £180,000 worth of copper for circulation in Ireland. Swift, 
who saw in this measure another link added to the Irish chain, flew 
to the rescue of his oppressed countrymen, and in a Dublin news- 
paper 2^roduced a series of letters marked by bold, simple, and 
hardy eloquence, and signed '^M. B. Drapier." Wood and his patent 
were squelched, and the great Dean became from that day the idol 
of the Irish people. The printer of the '^ Letters " was imprisoned, 
and a reward of £300 was offered for the author. Loved by all, 
no one was found base enough to betray Drapier. Ever afterwards 
Swift was known as The Deai^". His power over the masses was 
really boundless. Once when a Protestant archbishop accused 
him of stirring up the populace. Swift excused himself by saying : 
*^H I had but lifted up my little finger, they would have torn you 
to pieces ! " 

In 1726, when in his fifty-ninth year, the ^'^ Travels of Captain 
Gulliver,'*' that wonderful fiction and inimitable j^olitical and social 
satire, was issued by a London publisher. Swift's name was, of 
course, not aj)pended to it. It was so with nearly all his works. 
They at first appeared anonymously. He claimed them only after 
witnessing their impression on the public mind. High and low 
read ^^ Gulliver,*' and all were astonished at the wit, plainness, 
genius, and audacity of the unknown author and his strangely 
curious book. This was his last great literary effort. 

An old constitutional disorder, exhibiting itself in attacks of gid- 
diness and deafness, which at intervals had dogged his steps 
throughout life, now gradually settled dow^n upon the great and 
lonely Swift. As age advanced his attacks were more frequent. 
His temper grew terrible, yet he continued to write until 1736. 
The friends of his youth and his manhood were one by one gath- 
ered to the tomb. Above all, Stella, whom he dearly loved, had 
passed away. He stood almost alone, and he deeply felt his posi- 
tion. His distress of mind seems to have been bitter in the ex- 



12 2 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

treme. His usual mode of salutation in taking leave of his dearest 
friends for years before his death partook of that melancholy eccen- 
tricity so peculiar to him. ^^May God bless you !" he would say; 
^'I trust we shall never meet again." '' 

Dr. Young tells us that one evening himself and Swift were 
taking an evening walk about a mile out of Dublin. The Dean 
stopped short, and, looking upwards at a noble tree which at the 
top was much withered and decayed, he j)oiiited to it, saying: 
^^ I shall be like that tree : I shall wither first at the top," 

We hasten in sorrow, as from some unavoidable calamity, over 
the closing scene. The state of his mind is vividly described in a 
few sentences to his friend and comforter, Mrs. White way : 

^^ I have been very miserable all night, and to-day extremely deaf 
and full of pain. I am so stupid and confounded that I cannot 
express the mortification I am under, both in body and in mind. 
All I can say is, I am not in torture, but I daily and hourly expect it. 
Pray let me know how your health is and your family. I hardly 
understand one word I write. I am sure my days will be very few ; 
few and miserable they must be. I am, for these few days, yours 
entirely. '^J. Swift. 

^^ If I do not blunder, it is Saturday." 

We shall let the sympathetic pen of Sir Walter Scott describe the 
last sad days of this famous man : 

" In the course of about three years he is only known to have 
spoken once or twice. At length, when this awful moral lesson 
had subsisted from 1743 until the 19th of October, 1745, it pleased 
God to release the subject of these memoirs from this calamitous 
situation. He died upon that day without a single pang — so 
gently, indeed, that his attendants were scarce aware of his disso- 
lution. 

'• It was then that the gratitude of the Irish showed itself in the 
full glow of national enthusiasm. The interval was forgotten dur- 
ing which their great ^^atriot had been dead to the world, and he 
was wept and mourned as if he had been called away in the full 
career of his public services. Young and old of all ranks sur- 
rounded the house to pay the last tribute of sorrow and affection. 
Locks of his hair were so eagerly sought after that Mr. Sheridan 
happily applies to the enthusiasm of the citizens of Dublin the 
lines of Shakspere : 

7 Scott's '• Life of Swift." 



yo7iathan Swift ^ D.D. 123 

" ' Yea, beg a hair of him in memory, 

And, dying, mention it within their wills, 
Bequeathing it as a i"eal legacy 
Unto their issue.' 

" Swift was in person tall, strong, and well made ; of a dark 
complexion, but with blue eyes, black and basliy eyebrows, nose 
somewhat aquiline, and features which well expressed the stern, 
haughty, and dauntless turn of his mind. He was never known to 
laugh, and his smiles are happily characterized by the well-known 
lines of Shakspere ; indeed, the whole description of Oassius 
might be applied to Swift : 

* ' ' He reads much ; 
He is a great observer, and he looks 
Quite through the deeds of men ; 
Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort 
As if he mocked himself and scorned his spirit, 
That could be moved to smile at anything.' " ^ 

Swift's writings must endure as long as the English language. 
He was a poet, if not a very great one. One quality he possessed 
in an eminent degree — originality. Over rhyme he had an entire 
mastery. His more important j^ieces of poetry generally abound in 
good sense, acute remark, and richness of allusion. The great 
Dean's poem on his own death is one of his longest, and, perhaps, 
the best effort of his muse. 

But his fame rests securely on his pure and powerful prose. ^ '■ I 
remember," writes Sheridan, " to have heard the late Hawkins 
Brown say that the ^Drapier's Letters' were the most perfect pieces 
of oratory ever composed since the days of Demosthenes. And, 
indeed, upon comparison, there will appear a great similitude 
between the two writers. They both make use of the plainest 
words, and such as were in most general use, which they adorned 
only by a proper and most beautiful arrangement of them." Of 
the numberless merits and grave defects of '' Gulliver's Travels" — 
the greatest, most popular, and most original of his works — much 
could be written. Its true merit consists in the interest and origi- 
nality of the narratives, and the rich and beautiful sim^olicity of 
the diction. But the gross indecency of the chapters which de- 

8 Boscoe, "Life of Swift." 



1 24 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

scribe the land of the Houyhnhnms is enough to shock Christian 
modesty. 

" Immodest words admit of no defence, 
For want of decency is want of sense." 

''As a writer," says Dr. Hart, '^ Swift is without a parallel in 
English letters. His style is a model of clear, forcible expression, 
displaying a consummate knowledge of the foibles and vices of man- 
kind."' The coarseness which frequently disfigures his writings is 
simply a reflex of the coarse age in which he lived. 

Of the love-affairs of the Dean's life we have neither space nor 
inclination to enter at any length. A small volume would not suf- 
fice to exj^lain them. Miss Esther Johnson (''Stella") was a 
gifted and lovely girl, whose studies Swift in early life directed. 
She was devotedly attached to her tutor, and many years afterwards 
(1716) it is supposed they were privately married. Miss Jane 
TVaryng ("Varina") was a young lady who at first rejected Swift's 
offer of marriage, but subsequently repented and renewed the pro- 
posal herself. Swift, however, replied with a refusal as decided as 
her own. Miss Esther Yanhomrigh (''Vanessa") was another 
young lady whose studies the famous wit directed. The young 
pupil became so enamored of her master as to make a proposal of 
marriage. She was certainly not encouraged by Swift. It is said 
she died of a broken heart in 1722. It must, however, be confessed 
after all that has been written uj^on it, that the love-life of the 
author of " Gulliver" is still nearly as great a mystery as the "Man 
with the Iron Mask." 

The character of Dr. Swift is hard to be understood. This we 
admit. But his has been a much-abused character. Nearly all the 
Eno-lish writers who have either sketched or touched it have done 
their best to blacken it. Swift was an Irishman. That was enough. 
The London critics, and those who hang for support on their apron- 
strings, generally view him as with a microscope. His failings are 
carefully magnified ; his good qualities, as carefully left unnoticed. 
The beam in the critic's eye is nothing compared to the mote in the 
great Irish Dean's. We do not belong to this narrow school ; nor 
do we fear to express our good opinion of Swift — the great Swift — 
the honest Swift — the charitable Swift — the liberal Swift — the 
patriotic Swift. His eccentricities must be attributed to the un- 
happy disposition with which his life was one continual battle, and 



Jonatha^i Swift, D.D, 125 

to which, in the end, he was obliged to succumb. His faults, like 
straws, floated on the surface ; his good qualities, like pearls, were 
on the bottom. The instances of his kindness and tender charity 
are simply countless. According to his lights, he was a firm Chris- 
tian and a deeply religious man. But if there is one quality that 
exalts him more than another it is his fearless patriotism. His 
grand examj)le nerved in after-times Burke, Grattan, Curran, and 
O'Connell in their lonsr struesrles for the riofhts of the noble but 
shamefully oppressed people of Ireland. 

''Xo man,'' says Dr. Delaney, "ever deserved better of any 
country than Swift did of his. A steady, persevering, inflexible 
friend ; a wise, a watchful, and a faithful counsellor under many 
severe trials and bitter persecutions, to the manifest hazard both of 
his liberty and his fortune. He lived a blessing, he died a bene- 
factor, and his name will ever live an honor to Ireland." 



A GRUB STREET ELEGY. 

ON THE SUPPOSED DEATH OF PAETRn)GE, THE ALMANAC -5IAKEE. 1708. 

Well, 'tis as BickerstaS ^ has guess'd. 
Though we all took it for a jest : 
Partridge is dead I Xay, more, he died 
Ere he could prove the good 'squire lied. 
Strange an astrologer should die 
Without one wonder in the skv ; 
Xot one of all his crony stars 
To pay their duty at his hearse ! 
No meteor, no eclipse appear'd ! 
No comet with a flaming beard ! 
The sun has rose and gone to bed 
Just as if Partridge were not dead ; 
Xor hid himself behind the moon 
To make a dreadful night at noon. 
He at fit periods walks through Aries, 
Howe'er our earthly motion varies; 

'" Isaac BickerstafE. Esq ." was the name under ■which Swift wrote a number of hu- 
morous predictions in 1708 : among others, that " Partridge, the Almanac-ilaker, will 
infallibly die upon the 29th of March next, about eleven at night, of a ragicg fever." 



126 The Prose and Poetry of Irelaiid, 

And twice a year he'll cut th' equator, 
As if there had been no such matter. 

Some wits have wonder'd what analogy 
There is 'twixt cobbling^" and astrology; 
How Partridge made his oj^tics rise 
From a shoe-sole to reach the skies. 
A list the cobbler's temples ties 
To keep the hair out of his eyes, 
From whence 'tis plain the diadem 
That princes wear derives from them; 
And therefore crowns are nowadays 
Adorn'd with golden stars and rays ; 
Which plainly shows the near alliance 
'Twixt cobbling and the planets' science. 

Besides, that slow-paced sigu Bootes, 
As 'tis miscall'd, we know not who 'tis ; 
But Partridge ended all disputes : 
He knew his trade, and call'd it Boots I " 
The horned moon which heretofore 
Upon their shoes the Romans wore. 
Whose wideness kept their toes from corns. 
And whence we claim our shoeing-horns. 
Shows how the art of cobbling bears 
A near resemblance to the si)heres. 
A scrap of parchment hung by geometry 
(A great refiner in barometry) 
Can, like the stars, foretell the weather ; 
And what is parchment else but leather ? 
Which an astrologer might use 
Either for almanacs or shoes. 

Thus Partridge, by his wit aud parts. 
At once did practise both these arts ; 
And as the boding owl (or rather 
The bat, because her wings are leather) 
Steals from her private cell by night. 
And flies about the caudle-light. 
So learned Partridge could as well 
Creep in the dark from leathern cell, 

1° Partridge was a cobbler. — Swift 
11 See his almanac. — Swift. 



Jo7iatha7i Swift, D.D. 127 

And in liis fancy fly as far 

To peep upon a twinkling star. 

Besides, lie could confound the spheres, 
And set the planets by the ears ; 
To show his skill he Mars could join 
To Venus, in aspect malign ; 
Then call in Mercury for aid, 
And cure the wounds that Venus made. 

Great scholars have in Lucian read. 
When Philip, King of Greece, was dead, 
His soul and spirit did divide. 
And each part took a different side : 
One rose a star; the other fell 
Beneath, and mended shoes in hell. 

Thus Partridge still shines in each art. 
The cobbling and star-gazing part, 
And is install'd as good a star 
As any of the Caesars are. 

Triumphant star ! some pity show 
On cobblers militant below. 
Whom roguish boys, in stormy nights. 
Torment by p — g out their lights. 
Or through a chink convey their smoke 
Enclosed artificers to choke. 

Though high exalted in thy sphere, 
May'st follow still thy calling there. 
To thee the Bull would lend his hide. 
By Phoebus newly tanned and dried ; 
For thee they Argo's hulk will tax. 
And scrape her pitchy sides for wax; 
Then Ariadne kindly lends 
Her braided hair to make the ends ; 
The points of Sagittarius' dart 
Turns to an awl by heavenly art ; 
And Vulcan, wheddled by his wife. 
Will forge for thee a paring-knife. 

For want of room by Virgo's side, 
She'll strain a point, and sit ^"^ astride, 

12 "Tibibrachia contrahit ingens Scorpius," etc. 



128 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

To take thee kindly in between ; 
And then the signs will be thirteen. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here, five feet deep, lies on his back 
A cobbler, starmonger, and quack, 
Who to the stars, in pure good- will. 
Does to his best look upward still. 
Weep, all you customers that use 
His pills, his almanacs, or shoes , 
And you that did your fortunes seek 
Step to his grave but once a week , 
This earth, which bears his body's print. 
You'll find has so much virtue in't 
That, I durst pawn my ears, 'twill tell 
Whate'er concerns you full as well, 
In physic, stolen goods, or love. 
As he himself could, when above. 



^ AN ELEGIY 

ON THE DEATH OP DEMAK, THE USURER, 

Who died the 6th of July, 1720. 

Swift, with some of his usual party, happened to be in Mr. Sheridan's, in Capel 
Street, when the news of Demar's death was brought to them, and the elegy 
was the joint composition of the company. 

Know all men by these presents. Death, the tamer. 
By mortgage has secured the corpse of Demar ; 
Nor can four- hundred thousand sterling pound 
Eedeem him from his prison under ground. 
His heirs might well, of all his wealth possess'd. 
Bestow to bury him one iron chest. 
Plutus, the god of wealth, will joy to know 
His faithful steward in the sliades below. 
He walk'd the streets and wore a threadbare cloak; 
He dined and supp'd at charge of other folk ; 
And by his looks, had he held out his palms. 
He might be thought an object fit for alms. 



Jonathan Swift, D.D. 129 

So, to the poor if he I'efused his pelf. 

He used them full as kindly as himself. 

Where'er he went, he never saw his betters ; 

Lords, knights, and squires were all his humble debtors ; 

And, under hand and seal, the Irish nation 

Were forced to own to him their obligation. 

He that could once haye half the kingdom bought 
In half a minute is not worth a groat. 
His coffers from the coffin could not save, 
Xor all his interest keep liim from the grave. 
A golden monument would not be right, 
Because we wish the earth upon him light. 

London Tavern ! thou hast lost a friend, 
Though in thy walls he ne'er did farthing spend ; 
He touch'd the pence Avhen others touch'd the pot ; 
The hand that sign'd the mortgage paid the shot. 

Old as he was, no vulgar known disease 
On him could ever boast a power to seize ; 
^' But as he weigh'd his gold, grim Death in spite 
Cast in his dart, which made three moidores light ; 
And as he saw his darling money fail. 
Blew his last breath to sink the lighter scale." 
He who so long was current, 'twould be strange 
If he should now be cried down since his change. 

The sexton shall green sods on thee bestow ; 
Alas ! the sexton is thy banker now. 
A dismal banker must that banker be 
Who gives no bills but of mortality ! 

EPITAPH ox THE SAME. 

Beneath this verdant hillock lies 
Demar, the wealthy and the wise. 
His heirs, that he might safely rest, 
Have put his carcass in a chest — 
The very chest in which, they say, 
His other self, his money, lay. 
And if his heirs continue kind 
To that dear self he left behind, 
I dare believe that four in five 
Will think his better half alive. 



130 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

DR. SWIFT TO HIMSELF. 

ON ST. Cecilia's day. 

Grave Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pass 
That you, who know music no more than an ass, 
That you, who so lately were writing of drapiers, 
Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers ? 
To act such an opera once in a year, 
So offensive to every true Protestant ear, 
With trumpets, and fiddles, and organs, and singing. 
Will sure the Pretender and Popery bring in ; 
No Protestant prelate, his Lordship or Grace, 
Durst there show his right or most reverend face ; 
How would it pollute their crosiers and rochets 
To listen to minims, and quavers, and crotchets ! " 



AN ANSWER TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION. 

The furniture that best doth please 
St. Patrick's Dean, good sir, are these: 
The knife and fork with whicb. I eat, 
And next the pot that boils the meat ; 
The next to be preferred, I think. 
Is the glass in which I drink ; 
, The shelves on which my books I keep. 
And the bed on which I sleep ; 
An antique elbow-chair between. 
Big enough to hold the Dean ; 
And the stove that gives delight 
In the cold, bleak, wintry night ; 
To these we add a thing below 
More for use reserved than show — 
These are what the Dean do please; 
All superfluous are but these. 

13 The rest of this piece is wanting. 



Jonathan Swift, D.D. 131 

THE DEAN'S MAXXER OF LIVING. 

Ok rainy days alone I dine 
Upon a cliick and pint of wine. 
On rainy days I dine alone. 
And pick my chicken to the bone ; 
But this my servants much enrages — 
IS.0 scraps remain to save board-wages. 
In weather fine I nothing spend. 
But often sponge upon a friend ; 
Yet, where he's not so rich as I, 
I pay my club, and so gcod-by. 



TO STELLA.^^ 

ox HER BIRTHDAY, 1721-3. 

While, Stella, to your lasting praise 

The Muse her annual tribute pays — 

While I assign myself a task 

Which you expect, but scorn to ask — 

If I perform this task with j^ain, 

Let me of partial fate complain. 

You every year the debt enlarge, 

I gi'ow less equal to the charge ; 

In yon each virtue brighter shines. 

But my poetic vein declines. 

My harp will soon in vain be strung, 

And all your virtues left unsung ; 

For none among the upstart race 

Of poets dare assume my place. 

Your worth will be to them unknown — 

They must have Stellas of their own ; 

And thus, my stock of wit decayed, 

I, dying, leave the debt unpaid. 

Unless Delany, as my heir. 

Will answer for the whole arrear. 

r* This was Swift's poetical name for Miss Johnson. SiMa means a star. 



132 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland, 

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 

UPON THE DECLARATIONS OF TELE SEVERAL CORPORATIONS OP THE CITY OF DUBLIN 

AGAINST wood's HALFPENCE. 

(To the tune of "London is a Fine Town," etc.)j 

Oh I Dublin is a fine town 

And a gallant city, 
For Wood's trasli is tumbled down ; 

Come listen to my ditty. 

In full assembly all did meet 

Of every corporation, 
From every lane and every street. 

To save the sinking nation. 

The bankers would not let it pass 

For to be Wood's tellers. 
Instead of gold to count his brass. 

And fill their small-beer cellars. 

And, next to them, to take his coin 

The Gild would not submit ; 
They all did go, and all did join. 

And so their names they writ. 

The brewers met within their hall, 

And spoke in lofty strains ; 
These halfpence shall not pass at all : 

They want so mauy grains. 

The tailors came upon this pinch, 

And wish'd the dog m hell \ 
Should we give this same Woods an inch. 

We know he'd take an ell. 

But now the noble clothiers 

Of honor and renown. 
If they take Wood's halfpence. 

They will be all cast down. 

The shoemakers came on the next. 

And said they would much rather 
Than be by Wood's copper vext 

Take money stamped on leather. 



Jonatha^t Swift, D,D. 133 

The chandlers next in order came. 

And what they said was right : 
They hoped the rogne that laid the scheme 

Would soon be brought to light ; 

And that i±' AVoods were now withstood. 

To his eternal scandal. 
That twenty of these halfpence should 

Xot buy a farthiug candle. 

The butchers then, those men so brave, 

Spoke thus, and with a frown : 
Should Woods, that cunning, scoundrel, knave. 

Come here, we'd knock him down : 

For any rogue that comes to truck 

And trick away our trade 
Deserves not only to be stuck. 

But also to be flay'd. 

The bankers in a ferment were. 

And wisely shook their head ; 
Should these brass tokens once come here, 

We'd all have lost our bread. 

It set the Tery tinkers mad. 

The baseness of the metal, 
Because, they said, it was so bad 

It would not mend a kettle. 

The carpenters and joiners stood 

Confounded in a maze ; 
They seemed to be all in a wood. 
And so they weut their ways. 

This coin how well could we employ it 

In raising of a statue 
To those brave men that would destroy it. 

And then, old Woods, have at you. 



34 ^-^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

God prosper long our tradesmen, then. 

And so he will, I hope ! 
May they be still such honest men 

When Woods has got a rope. 



EPIGRAM, April, 1735. 

In answer to the Dean's verses on his own deafness. 

What though the Dean hears not the knell 
Of the next church's passing bell ; 
What though the thunder from a cloud, 
Or that from female tongue more loud. 
Alarm not ; at the Deapier's ear 
Chink but Wood's halfpence, and he'll hear. 



THE EPITAPH ON JUDGE BOAT. 

Heee lies Judge Boat within a coffin ; 

Pray, gentlefolks, forbear your scoffing. 

A Boat a judge ! Yes ; where's the blunder ? 

A wooden judge is no such wonder. 

And in his robes you must agree 

'No boat was better deck'd than he. 

'Tis needless to describe him fuller ; 

In short, he was an able sculler. 



EPITAPH. 

IN BERKELEY CHURCHYAED, GLOUCESTERSHIRE. 

Here lies the Earl of Suffolk's fool. 

Men called him Dicky Pearce ; 
His folly served to make fools laugh 

When wit and mirth were scarce. 
Poor Dick, alas ! is dead and gone ; 

What signifies to cry ? 
Dickies enough are still behind 

To laugh at by and by. 

Buried June 18, 1728, aged 6& 



Jonathan Swift, D.D. 135 

ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT.^* 

Written in November, 1731. 

Occasioned by reading the following maxim in Rochefoucauld : " Dans I'adver- 
site. de nos meiUeurs amis nous trouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne uous 
deplait pas." 

"In tt.e adversity of our best friends we always find something that does not displease 
us." 

As Eochefoucauld his maxims drew 
From nature. I believe them true. 
They argue no corruj)ted mind 
In him ; the fault is in mankind. 

This maxim, more than all the rest. 
Is thought too base for human breast : 
^' In all distresses of our friends 
We first consult our private ends ; 
While nature, kindly bent to ease us. 
Points out some circumstance to please us. 

If this, perhaps, your patience move, 
Let reason and experience prove. 
We all behold with envious eyes 
Our equals raised above our size. 
Who would not at a crowded show 
Stand high himself, keep others low ? 
I love my friend as well as you : 
But why should he obstruct my view ? 
Then let me have the higher post, 
Suppose it but an inch at most. 
If in a battle you should find 
One whom you love of all mankind 
Had some heroic action done, 
A champion kill'd, or trophy won, 
Rather than thus be overtopp'd. 
Would you not wish his laurels cropped ? 
Dear honest JSTed is in the gout. 
Lies rack'd with pain, and you without. 
How patiently you hear him groan ! 
How glad the case is not your own ! 

J5 " The verses on his death, and the " Rhapsody on Poetry," are the best of Swift's 
poetical productions, though they cannot be called true poetry." — Dr. Warton. 



1 3^ The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

What poet would not grieve to see 
His brother write as well as he. 
But, rather than they should excel, 
Would wish his rivals all in hell ? 

Her end when Emulation misses. 
She turns to Envy, stings and hisses ; 
The strongest friendship yields to pride, 
Unless the odds be on our side. 
Vain humankind ! fantastic race ! 
Thy various follies who can trace ? 
Self-love, ambition, envy, pride. 
Their empire in our hearts divide ; 
Grive others riches, power, and station^, 
'Tis all on me a usurpation. 
I have no title to aspire. 
Yet when you sink I seem the higher. 
In Pope I cannot read a line. 
But with a sigh I wish it mine. 
When he can in one couplet fix 
More sense than I can do in six. 
It gives me such a jealoas fit, 
I cry, '^ Pox take him and his wit ! " 
I grieve to be outdone by Gay 
In my own, humorous, biting way. 
Arbuthnot is no more my friend. 
Who dares to irony pretend. 
Which I was born to introduce, 
Eefined it first, and show'd its use. 
St. John, as well as Pulteney, knows 
That I had some repute for prose. 
And, till they drove me out of date. 
Could maul a minister of state. 
If they have mortified my i:>ride, 
And made me throw my pen aside — 
If with such talents Heaven has bless'd 'em- 
Have I not reason to detest 'em ? 

To all my foes, dear Fortune, send 
Thy gifts, but never to my friend. 
I tamely can endure the first ; 
But this witli envy makes me burst. 



'Jonathan Swift, D.D. 137 

Thus miicli may serve by way of j)roein 
Proceed we therefore to onr poem. 

The time is not remote when I 
Must, by the course of nature, die ; 
When, I foresee, my special friends 
Will try to find their private ends, 
And, though 'tis hardly understood 
Which way my death can do them good. 
Yet thus, me thinks, I hear them speak : 
^' See how the Dean besriiis to break ! 
Poor gentleman, he droops apace ! 
You plainly find it in his face. 
That old Yerti2:o in his head 
Will never leave him till he's dead. 
Besides, his memory decays ; 
He recollects not what he says ; 
He cannot call his friends to mind ; 
Forgets the place where last he dined ; 
Plies you with stories o'er and o'er ; 
He told them fifty times before. 
How does he fancy we can sit 
To hear his ont-of-fashion wit ? 
But he takes up with younger folks, 
Who for his wine will bear his jokes. 
Faith ! he must make his stories shorter, 
Or change his comrades once a quarter ; 
In half the time he talks them round 
There must another set be found. 

^^ For poetry he's past his prime ; 
He takes an hour to find a rhyme. 
His fire is out, his wit decay'd, 
His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. 
Pd have him throw away his pen ; 
But there's no talkinsr to some men !" 

And then their tenderness appears 
By addino; lars-ely to mv vears : 
" He's older than he would be reckoned. 
And well remembers Charles the Second. 
He hardly drinks a pint of wine. 
And that, T doubt, is no sfood sign. 



138 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland, 

His stomac\i, too, begins to fail ; 

Last year we thought him ^irong and hale, 

But now he's quite another thing; 

I wish he may hold out till spring ! " 

They hug themselves, and reason thus : 

*^It is not yet so bad with us I " 

In such a case they talk in tropes. 

And by their fears express their hopes. 

Some great misfortune to portend, 

iNo enemy can match a friend. 

With all the kindness they profess. 

The merit of a lucky guess 

(When daily how-d'yes come of course, 

And servants answer, ^^ Worse and worse !") 

Would j)lease them better than to tell 

That " Grod be praised, the Dean is well." 

Then he who prophesied the best 

Approves his foresight to the rest : 

^' You know I always fear'd the worst. 

And often told you so at first." 

He'd rather choose that I should die 

Than his prediction prove a lie. 

!N"ot one foretells I shall recover ; 

But all agree to give me over. 

Yet, should some neighbor feel a pain 
Just in the parts where I complain. 
How many a message would he send ! 
What hearty prayers that I should mend ! 
Enquire what regimen I kept. 
What gave me ease, and how I slept. 
And more lament when I was dead 
Than all the snivellers round my bed. 

My good companions, never fear ; 
For though you may mistake a year. 
Though your jDrognostics run too fast 
They must be verified at last. 

Behold the fatal day arrive ! 
'' How is the Dean ? " '' He's just alive." 
Now the departing prayer is read ; 
"'He hardly breathes." '' The Dean is dead ! " 



Jo7iathan Swift, D.D, 139 

Before the passing bell begun 
The news through half the town is run. 
'^ Oh ! may we all for death prepare. 
What has he left ? and who's his heir ?" 
'^I know no more than what the news is ; 
'Tis all bequeathed to public uses." 
'^ To public uses I There's a whim ! 
What had the public done for him ? 
Mere enyj, avarice, and pride ! 
He gave it all — but first he died. 
And had the Dean in all the nation 
J^To worthy friend, no poor relation ? 
So ready to do strangers good. 
Forgetting his own flesh and blood ! " 

INTow Grub Street wits are all employed ; ^^ 
With elegies the town is cloy'd ; 
Some paragraph in every pa23er 
To curse the Dean or bless the Drapier. 

The doctors, tender of their fame, 
Wisely on me lay all the blame : 
'^ We must confess his case was nice ; 
But he would never take advice. 
Had he been ruled, for aught apj^ears 
He might have lived these twenty years. 
For when we oj)en'd him we found 
That all his vital parts were sound." 

From Dublin soon to London spread, 
'Tis told at court '^ The Dean is dead," 
And Lady Suffolk/^ in the spleen, 
Euns laughing up to tell the queen. 
The queen, so gracious, mild, and good, 
Cries, ^^ Is he gone ? 'Tis time he should. 
He's dead, you say ; then let him rot ! 
I'm glad the medals ^^ were forgot. 
I promised him, I own ; but when ? 
I only was the princess then ; 



'* The Dean supposed himself to die in Ireland, where he was born. 

*^ Mrs. Howard, at one time a favorite with the Dean, 

*8 The medals were to be sent to the Dean in four months ; but . . 



140 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

But now, as consort of the king. 
You know 'tis quite another thing." 
Now Chartres/^ at Sir Eobert's levee, 
Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy. 
*' Wliy, if he died without his shoes," 
Cries Bob/° "I'm sorry for the news. 
Oh I were the v/retch but living still. 
And in his place my good friend Will,'^ 
Or had a mitre on his head, 
Provided Bolingbroke" were dead." 
Kow Curll " his shop from rubbish drains ; 
Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains ! 
And then to make them pass the glibber. 
Revised by Tibbalds, ^loore, and Gibber.^* 
He'll treat me as he does my betters : 
Publish my will, my life, my letters f^ 
Revive the libels born to die. 
Which Pope must bear as well as I. 

Here shift the scene, to represent 
How those I love my death lament. 
Poor Pope would grieve a month, and Gay 
A week, and Arbuthnot a day. 

St. John himself will scarce forbear 
To bite his pen and drop a tear. 
The rest will give a shrug, and cry, 
*' Pm sorry — but we all must die ! " 

IndifEerence, clad in Wisdom's guise. 
All fortitude of mind supplies ; 

13 Chartres, an infamous scoundrel, gro-wn from a f ootboy to a prodigious fortune, both 
in England and Scotland. 

20 Sir Robert Walpoie. Chief jlinister of State, treated the Dean in 1726 with great dis- 
tinction ; invited him to dinner at Chelsea, with the Deans friends chosen on purpose ; 
appointed an hoar to talk with him on Ireland, to which kingdom and people the Dean 
found him no great friend. 

21 iilr. William Pultney, from being Sir Robert's intimate friend, detesting his adminis- 
tration, opposed his measures, and joined with my Lord Bolingbroke. 

22 Henry St. John, Lord Viscount Bolingbroke, Secretary of State to Queen Anne, of 
blessed memory. 

23 Curll hath been the most infamous bookseller of any age or country. 

24 Three stupid verse-writers in London ; the last, to the shame of the court and the 
disgrace to wit and learning, was made Laureate. 

25 Curll, notoriously infamous for publishing the lives, letters, and last wills and testa- 
ments of the nobility and ministers of state, as well as of all the rogues who are hanged 
at Tyburn. 



Jonathan Swift, D.D, 141 

For how can stony bowels melt 
In those who never pity felt ? 
When we are lash'd^ they kiss the rod, 
Eesio^nino^ to the will of God. 

The fools, my juniors by a year. 
Are tortur'd with suspense and fear, 
Who wisely thought my age a screen 
When death approach'd to stand between, 
The screen removed, their hearts are trembling ; 
They mourn for me without dissembling. 

My female friends, whose tender hearts 
Have better learn'd to act their parts, 
Eeceive the news in doleful dumps : 
^' The Dean is dead ! (Pray, what is trumps ?) 
Then Lord have mercy on his soul ! 
(Ladies, I'll venture for the Yole. ) 
Six deans, they say, must bear the pall. 
(I wish I knew what king to call. ) 
Madam, your husband will attend 
The funeral of so fjood a friend. 
ISTo, madam, 'tis a shocking sight ; 
And he's engaged to-morrow night. 
My Lady Club will take it ill 
If he should fail her at quadrille. 
He loved the Dean (I lead a heart) ; 
But dearest friends, they say, must part. 
His time was come ; he ran his race ; 
We hope he's in a better place." 

Why do we grieve that friends should die ? 
^o loss more easy to supply. 
One year is past ; a di:Serent scene ! 
ISTo further mention of the Dean, 
Who now, alas 1 no more is miss'd 
Than if he never did exist. 
Where's now this favorite of Apollo ? 
Departed^ — and his works must follow. 
Must undergo the common fate ; 
His kind of wit is out of date. 

Some country squire to Lintot goes. 
Enquires for ^^ Swift in Terse and Prose." 



142 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 



Says Lin tot, '*I have beard the name; 

He died a year ago ?" — ^^ The same." 

He searches all the shops in vain. 

" Sir, you may find them in Duck Lane; " 

I sent them with a load of hooks. 

Last Monday, to the pastry-cook's. 

To fancy they could live a year ! 

I find you're but a stranger here. 

The Dean was famous in his time. 

And had a kind of knack at rhyme. 

His way of writing now is past ; 

The town has got a better taste. 

I keep no antiquated stuff. 

But spick and span I have enough. 

Pray do but give me leave to show 'em ; 

Here's CoUey Gibber's birthday poem. 

This ode you never yet have seen. 

By Stephen Duck, upon the queen. 

Then here's a letter finely penn'd 

Against the Craftsman and his friend ; 

It clearly shows that all reflection 

On ministers is disaffection. 

l^ext, here's Sir Eobert's vindication, '*' 

And Mr. Henley's last oration. ^^ 

The hawkers have not got them yet ; 

Your honor please to buy a set ? 

*^ Here's Wolston's^^ tracts, the twelfth edition — 
'Tis read by every politician ; 
The country members, when in town. 
To all their boroughs send them down. 
You never met a thing so smart ; 
The courtiers have them all by heart ; 
Those maids of honor who can read 
Are taught to use them for their creed. 

28 Where old books are sold. 

2^^ Walpole had a set of party scribblers, who did nothing but write in his defence. 

23 Henley, a clergyman, who, wanting both merit and luck to get preferment, or even 
to keep his curacy in the Established Church, formed a new conventicle, which he called 
an Oratory. 

23 Wolston, a clergyman, who, for want of bread, in several treatises, in the most blas- 
phemous manner, attempted to turn our Saviour" s miracles into ridicule. 



yonathan Swift, D.D. 143 

The reverend authors good intention 
Has been rewarded with a pension. ^^ 
He does an honor to his gown 
By bravely running priestcraft down. 
He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, 
That Closes was a grand impostor ; 
That all his miracles were cheats, 
Perform'd as jugglers do their feats. 
The church had never such a writer ; 
A shame he has not got a mitre ! " 

Suppose me dead, and then suppose 
A club assembled at the Rose, 
Where, from discourse of this and that, 
I grow the subject of their chat ; 
And while they toss my name about. 
With favor some, and some without. 
One quite indifferent in the cause 
My character impartial draws : 

'' The Dean, if Ave believe report, 
Was never ill-received at court. 
As for his works in verse and prose, 
I own myself no judge of those, 
Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em ; 
But this I know, all people bought 'em. 
As with a moral "\dew design'd 
To cure the vices of mankind. 
His vein, ironically grave, 
Expos'd the fool and lasli'd the knave. 
To steal a hint was never known, 
But what he writ was all his own. 

" He never thought an honor done him 
Because a duke was proud to own him; 
Would rather slip aside and choose 
To talk with wits in dirty shoes ; 
Despised the fools Avith stars and garters 
So often seen caressing Chartres. 
He never courted men in station ; 
Ifo persons held in admiration; 

5" Wolston is here confounded with Woolaston. 



144 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

Of no man's greatness was afraid. 
Because he sought for no man's aid. 
Though trusted long in great affairs, 
He gave himself no hauglity airs ; 
Without regarding private ends. 
Spent all his credit for his friends, 
And only chose the wise and good — 
No flatterers ; no allies in blood ; 
But siiccor'd virtue in distress, 
And seldom fail'd of good success. 
As numbers in their hearts must own. 
Who but for him had been unknown.'^ 

" With princes kept a due decorum. 
But never stood in awe before 'em. 
He follow'd David's lesson just — 
In princes never put thy trust ; 
And would you make him truly sour. 
Provoke him with a slave in power. 
The Irish Senate if you named, 
With what impatience he declaim'd ! 
^ Fair Liberty ' was all his cry. 
For her he stood prepared to die ; 
For her he boldly stood alone ; 
For her he oft exposed his own. 
Two kingdoms,^^ just as faction led, 
Had set a price upon his head ; 
But not a traitor could be found 
Could sell him for six hundred pound. 

^^Had he but spared his tongue and pen. 
He might have rose like other men ; 
But power was never in his thought. 
And wealth he valued not a groat. 



31 Dr. Delany, in the close of his eighth letter, after having enumerated the friends with 
whom the Dean lived in the greatest intimacy, very handsomely applies this passage to 
himself. 

32 In 1713 the queen was prevailed with, by an address from the House of Lords in Eng- 
land, to publish a proclamation, promising £300 to discover the author of a pamphlet 
called ' ' The Public Spirit of the Whigs " ; and in Ireland, in the year 1724, Lord Carteret, 
at his first coming into the Government, -pas prevailed on to issue a proclamation for 
promising the like reward of £303 to any person who would discover the author of a pam- 
phlet called " The Drapiers Fourth Letter.'' 



Jonathan Swift, D,D, 145 

Ingratitude lie often found. 

And pitied those who meant the wound ; 

But kept the tenor of his mind. 

To merit well of humankind ; 

Nor made a sacrifice of those 

Who still were true to please his foes. 

He labor'd many a fruitless hour 

To reconcile his friends in power ; 

Saw mischief by a faction brewing. 

While they pursued each other's ruin. 

But finding vain was all his care, 

He left the court in mere despair/^ 

^^ And oh ! how short are human schemes. 
Here ended all our golden dreams. 
What St. John's skill in state affairs, 
AVhat Ormond's yalor, Oxford's cares. 
To save their sinking country lent. 
Was all destroyed by one event. 
Too soon that precious life was ended. 
On which alone our weal depended. ^* 
When up a dangerous faction starts, ^^ 
With wrath and venge^ce in their hearts ; 
By solemn league and Covenant bound 
To ruin, slaughter, and confound ; 
To turn religion to a fable. 
And make the Government a Babel ; 
Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown — 
Corrupt the senate, rob the crown ; 
To sacrifice Old England's glor}', 
And make her infamous in story — 
When such a tempest shook the land. 
How could unguarded Virtue stand ? 
With horror, grief, despair, the Dean 
Beheld the dire destructive scene ; 
His friends in exile or the Tower, 
Hinaself ^^ within the frown of power ; 



'3 Queen Ann's ministry fell to variance from the first year after its commencement. 
3* In the height of the quarrel between the ministers the queen died, August 1, 1714. 
'^ On the queen's demise the Whigs were restored to power. 
S8 Upon the queen's daath the Dean returned to Dublin. 



146 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

Pursued by base euveuom'd pens 
Far to the land of saints and fens — 
A seryile race in folly nursed. 
Who truckle most when treated worst. 

^' By innocence and resolution 
He bore continual persecution, 
While numbers to preferment rose 
Whose merits were to be his foes ; 
When even his own familiar friends, 
Intent upon their private ends. 
Like renegadoes now he feels 
Against him lifting up their heels. 

'•' The Dean did by his pen defeat 
An infamous, destructive cheat ;^" 
Taught fools their interest how to know. 
And gave them arms to ward the blow. 
Envv has own'd it was his doinof 
To save that hapless land from ruin : 
While they who at the steerage stood. 
And reap'd the profit, sought his blood. 

'^ To save them from their eWl fate 
In him was held a crime of state. 
A wicked monster on the bench,''® 
Whose fury blood could never quench — 
As vile and profligate a villain 
As modern Scroggs or old Tresilian ; ^' 
Wlio long all justice had discarded, 
Xor fear'd he God, nor man regarded, 
Yow'd on the Dean his rage to vent. 
And make him of his zeal repent ; 
But Heaven his innocence defends. 
The grateful people stand his friends. 
Xot strains of law, nor judge's frown, 
Xor topics brought to please the crown. 



37 Wood, a hardware man from England, had a patent for coining copper halfpence for 
Ireland, to the sum of £l80 000 which, in the consequence, must have left that kingdom 
without gold or silver. 

36 Wliitshee was then Chief-Justice. 

3* Sir William Scroggs, Chief-Justice of the King's Bench in the reign of King Charles H. 
and Sir Robert Tresilian, Chief -Justice of England in the time of Richard II. 



Jonathan Swift, DJD. 147 

Nor witness hired, nor jury pick'd, 
Prevail to bring liim in convict. 

•'•In exile, with a steady heart. 
He spent his life's declining part. 
Where folly, pride, and faction sway. 
Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay. 
His friendships there, to few confined. 
Were always of the middling kind — 
No fools of rank, a mongrel breed. 
Who fain would pass for lords indeed ; 
Where titles give no right or power. 
And peerage is a witherd flower ; 
He would have held it a disgrace 
If such a wretch had known his face. 
On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, 
He vented oft his wrath in vain ; 
. . . squires to market brought. 
Who sell their souls and . . . for naught. 
The ... go joyful back. 
The . . . the church their tenants rack. 
Go snacks with . . . 
And keep the peace to pick up fees ; 
In every job to have a share, 
A jail or turnpike to repair. 
And turn the tax for public roads 
Commodious to their own abodes. 

'' Perhaps I may allow the Dean 
Had too much satire in his vein. 
And seemed determined not to starve it. 
Because no age could more deserve it. 
Yet malice never was his aim ; 
He lashed the vice, but spared the name ; 
No individual could resent 
Where thousands equally were meant. 
His satire points at no defect 
But what all mortals may correct ; 
For he abhorr'd that senseless tribe 
Who call it humor when they gibe : 
He spared a hump or crooked nose 
Whose owners set not up for beaux. 



148 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

True genuine dulness moved his pity. 
Unless it offered to be witty. 
Those who their ignorance confess'd 
He ne'er offended with a jest ; 
But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote 
A verse from Horace learned by rote. 

'^ He knew a hundred pleasing stories. 
With all the turns of Whigs and Tories ; 
Was cheerful to his dying day, 
And friends would let him have his way. 

^* He gave the little wealth he had 
To build a house for fools and mad ; 
And show'd by one satiric touch 
'N'o nation wanted it so much. 
That kingdom he had left his debtor ; 
I wish it soon may have a better." 



GULLIVER'S TKAVELS. 

A VOYAGE TO LILLIPUT. 

Gulliver gives some account of himself and family — His first inducements to 
travel — He is shipwrecked and swims for his life — Gets safe on shore in the 
country of Lilliput — Is made a prisoner and carried up the country. 

My father had a small estate in JS'ottinghamshire ; I was the 
third of five sons. He sent me to Emanuel College, in Cambridge, 
at fourteen years old, where I resided three years, and applied my- 
self close to my studies ; but the charge of maintaining me, al- 
though I had a very scanty allowance, being too great for a narrow 
fortune, I was bound apprentice to Mr. James Bates, an eminent 
surgeon in London, with whom I continued four years ; my father 
now and then sending me small sums of money, I laid them out in 
learning navigation and other parts of the mathematics useful to 
those who intend to travel, as I always believed it would be, some 
time or other, my fortune to do. When I left Mr. Bates I went 
down to my father, where, by the assistance of him and my Uncle 
John, and some other relations, I got forty pounds, and a promise 
of thirty pounds a year to maintain me at Leyden. There I studied 
physic two years and seven months, knowing it would be useful in 
long voyages. 



Jonathan Swift, D.D. 149 

Soon after my return from Leyden I was recommended by my 
good master, Mr. Bates, to be surgeon to the Swallow^ Captain 
Abraham Pannel, commander, with whom I continued three years 
and a half, making a voyage or two into the Levant and some other 
parts. When I came back I resolved to settle in London, to which 
Mr. Bates, my master, encouraged me, and by him I was recom- 
mended to several patients. I took part of a small house in the 
Old Jewry, and, being advised to alter my condition, I married* 
Miss Mary Burton, second daughter to Mr. Edmund Burton, hosier, 
in Newgate Street, with whom I received four hundred poands for 
a portion. 

But my good master. Bates, dying in two years after, and I having 
few friends, my business began to fail ; for my conscience would 
not suffer me to imitate the bad practice of too many among my 
brethren. Having therefore consulted with my wife and some of 
my acquaintances, I determined to go again to sea. I was surgeon 
successively in two ships, and made several voyages, for six years, to 
the East and West Indies, by which I got some addition to my for- 
tune. My hours of leisure I spent in reading the best authors, 
ancient and modern, being always provided with a good number of 
books, and, when I was ashore, in observing the manners and dis- 
positions of the people, as well as learning their language, wherein 
I had a great faciUty, by the strength of my memory. 

The last of these voyages not proving very fortunate, I grew 
weary of the sea, and intended to stay at home with my wife and 
family. I removed from the Old Jewry to Fetter Lane, and from 
thence to Wapping, hoping to get business among the sailors ; but 
it would not turn to account. After three years' expectation that 
things would mend, I accepted an advantageous offer from Captain 
William Prichard, master of the Antelope, who was making a voy- 
age to the South Sea. We set sail from Bristol, May 4, 1699, and 
our voyage at first was very prosperous. 

It would not be proper, for some reasons, to trouble the reader 
with the particulars of our adventures in those seas ; let it suflB.ce to 
inform him that, in our passage from thence to the East Indies, we 
were driven by a violent storm to the northwest of Van Diemen's 
Land. By an observation we found ourselves in the latitude of 
30° 2' south. Twelve of our crew were dead by immoderate labor 
and ill food ; the rest were in a very weak condition. On the 5th 
of November, which was the beginning of summer in those parts. 



1 50 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

the "weather being very hazy, the seamen spied a rock within half a 
cable's-length of the ship ; but the wind was so strong that we were 
driven directly upon it, and imme lately split. Six of the crew, of 
whom I was one, having let down the boat into the sea, made a 
shift to get clear of the ship and the rock. We rowed, by my com- 
putation, about three leagues, till we were able to work no longer, 
being already spent with labor while we were in the ship. We 
therefore trusted ourselves to the mercy of the waves, and in about 
half an hour the boat was overset by a sudden flurry from the north. 
What became of my companions in the boat, as well as of those who 
escaped on the rock or were left in the vessel, I cannot tell, but 
conclude they were all lost. For my own part, I swam as Fortune 
directed me, and was pushed forward by wind and tide. I often let 
my legs drop, and could feel no bottom ; but when I was almost 
gone, and able to struggle no longer, I found myself within my 
depth, and by this time the storm was much abated. The declivity 
was so small that I walked near a mile before I got to the shore, 
which I conjectured was about eight o'clock in the evening. I then 
advanced forward near half a mile, but could not discover any sign 
of houses or inhabitants, at least I was in so weak a condition that 
I did not observe them. I was extremely tired, and with that and 
the heat of the weather, and about half a pint of brandy that I 
drank as I left the ship, I found myself much inclined to sleep. I 
lay down on the grass, which was very short and soft, where 1 slept 
sounder than I ever remembered to have done in my life, and, as I 
reckoned, about nine hours, for when I awaked it was just daylight. 
I attempted to rise, but was not able to stir ; for, as I haj)|)eiied to 
lie on my back, I found my arms and legs were strongly fastened on 
each side to the ground, and my hair, which was long and thick, 
tied down in the same manner. I likewise felt several slender liga- 
tures across my body, from my arm-pits to my thighs. I could only 
look upwards ; the sun began to grow hot- and the light offended my 
eyes. I heard a confused noise about me, but, in the posture I lay, 
could see nothing except the sky. In a little time I felt something 
alive moving on my left leg, which, advancing gently forward over 
my breast, came almost to my chin, when, bending my eyes down- 
ward as much as I could, I perceived it to be a human creature not 
six inches high, with a bow and arrow in his hands and a quiver at 
his back. In the meantime I felt at least forty more of the same 
kind (as I conjectured) following the first. I was in the utmost 



Jonathan Swift, D.D, 151 

astonishment, and roared so loud that they all ran back in a fright, 
and some of them, as I was afterwards told, were hurt with the falls 
they got by leaping from my sides upon tlie ground. However, 
they soon returned, and one of them, who ventured so far as to get 
a full sight of my face, lifting up his hands and eyes by way of ad- 
miration, cried out, in a shrill but distinct voice, Hehinah degul ; 
the others re^Deated the same words several times, but I then knew 
not what they meant. I lay all this while, as the reader may be- 
lieve, in great uneasiness. At length, struggling to get loose, I had 
the fortune to break the strings and wrench out the pegs that 
fastened my left arm to the ground ; for, by lifting it up to my 
face, I discovered the metliods they had taken to bind me, and, at 
the same time, with a violent pull which gave me excessive pain, I 
a little loosened the string that tied down my hair on the left side^ 
so that I was just able to turn my head about two inches. But the 
creatures ran off a second time before I could seize them ; where- 
upon there was a great shout, in a very shrill accent, and, after it 
ceased, I heard one of them cry aloud, Tolgo pTionaCy when, in an 
instant, I felt above a hundred arrows discharged on my left hand, 
which pricked me like so many needles, and, besides, they shot an- 
other flight into the air, as we do bombs in Europe, whereof many, 
I suppose, fell on my body (though I felt them not), and some on 
my face, which I immediately covered with my left hand. When 
this shower of arrows was over, I fell a-groaning with grief and 
pain ; and then, striving again to get loose, they discharged another 
volley, larger than the first, and some of them attempted with 
spears to stick me in the sides ; but, by good luck, I had on me a 
buff jerkin, which they could not pierce. I thought it the most 
prudent method to lie still ; and my design was to continue so till 
night, when, my left hand being already loose, I could easily free 
myself ; and as for the inhabitants, I had reason to believe I might 
be a match for the greatest army they could bring against me, if 
they were all the same size with him that I saw. But fortune dis- 
posed otherwise of me. When the people observed I was quiet, they 
discharged no more arrows, but by the noise I heard I knew their 
numbers increased ; and about four yards from me, over against my 
right ear, I heard a knocking for above an hour, like that of people 
at work, when, turning my head that way as well as the pegs and 
strings would permit me, I saw a stage erected about a foot and a 
half from the ground, capable of holding four of the inhabitants, 



152 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

with two or three ladders to mount it, from whence one of them, 
who seemed to be a person of quality, made me a long speech, 
whereof I understood not one syllable. But I should have men- 
tioned that before the principal person began his oration he cried 
out three times, Langro dehul san (these words and the former 
were afterwards repeated and explained to me) ; whereupon, imme- 
diately, about fifty of the inhabitants came and cut the strings that 
fastened the left side of my head, wliich gave me the liberty of 
turning it to the right, and of observing the person and gesture of 
him that was to speak. He appeared to be of a middle age, and 
taller than any of the other three who attended him, whereof one 
was a page that held up his train, and seemed to be somewhat 
longer than my middle finger ; the other two stood the one on each 
side to support him. He acted every part of an orator, and I could 
observe many periods of threatenings, and others of promises, pity, 
and kindness. I answered in a few words, but in the most submis- 
sive manner, lifting up my left hand and both my eyes to the sun, 
as calling him for a witness ; and being almost famished with hun- 
ger, having not eaten a morsel for some hours before I left the ship, 
I found the demands of nature so strong upon me that I could not 
forbear showing my impatience (perhaps against the strict rules of 
decency) by putting my finger frequently to my mouth, to signify 
that I wanted food. The hurgo (for so they called a great lord, as 
I afterwards learned) understood me very well. He descended from 
the stage and commanded that several ladders should be applied to 
my sides, on which above a hundred of the inhabitants mounted 
and walked towards my mouth, laden with baskets full of meat, 
which had been provided and sent thither by the king's orders, 
upon the first intelligence he received of me. I observed there was 
the flesh of several animals, but could not distinguish them by the 
taste. There were shoulders, legs, and loins, shaped like those of 
mutton and very well dressed, but smaller than the wings of a lark. 
I eat them by two or three at a mouthful, and took three loaves at 
a time about the bigness of musket-bullets. They supjolied me as 
fast as they could, showing a thousand marks of wonder and aston- 
ishment at my bulk and appetite. I then made another sign, that 
I wanted drink. They found by my eating that a small quantity 
would not suffice me, and, being a most ingenious people, they 
slung up, with great dexterity, one of their largest hogsheads, then 
rolled it towards my hand and beat out the top ; I drank it off at a 



Jo7iathan Swift, D.D. 153 

draught, which I might well do, for it did not hold half a pint and 
tasted like a small wine of Burgundy, but much more delicious. 
They brought me a second hogshead, which I drank m the same 
manner and made signs for more, but they had none to give me. 
When I had performed these wonders they shouted for joy and 
danced upon my breast, repeating several times, as they did at 
first, Hehinali degul. They made me a sign that I should throw 
down the two hogsheads, but first warning the people how to stand 
out of the way, crying aloud, Borach mevolali ; and when they saw 
the vessels in the air there was a universal shout of Hehinali degul. 
I confess I was often tempted, while they were passing backwards and 
forwards on my body, to seize forty or fifty of the first that came in 
my reach and dash them against the ground. But the remembrance 
of what I had felt, which probably might not be the worst they 
could do, and the promise of honor I made them — for so I inter- 
preted my submissive behavior — soon drove out these imaginations. 
Besides, I now considered myself as bound by the laws of hospitality 
to a people who had treated me with so much expense and magnifi- 
cence. However, in my thoughts I could not sufficiently wonder at 
the intrepidity of these diminutive mortals, who durst venture to 
mount and walk upon my body, while one of my hands was at 
liberty, without trembling at the very sight of so prodigious a 
creature as I must appear to them. After some time, when they 
observed that I made no more demands for meat, there appeared 
before me a person of high rank from his imperial majesty. His 
excellency, having mounted on the small of my right leg, advanced 
forwards up to my face, with about a dozen of his retinue, and, 
producing his credentials, under the signet-royal, which he applied 
close to my eyes, spoke about ten minutes without any signs of 
anger, but with a kind of determined resolution, often pointing- 
forwards, which, as I afterwards found, was towards the caj^ital 
city, about half a mile distant, whither it was agreed by his majesty 
in council that I must be conveyed. I answered in a few words, 
but to no purpose, and made a sign with my hand that was loose, 
putting it to the other (but over his excellency's head, for fear of 
hurting him or his train) and then to my own head and body, to 
signify that I desired my liberty. It appeared that he understood 
me well enough, for lie shook his head by way of disapprobation, 
and held his hand in a posture to show that I must be carried as a 
prisoner. However, he made other signs, to let me know that I 



154 T^^(^ Pilose and Poetry of P^eland, 

should have meat and drink enongli, and very good treatment. 
Whereupon I once more thought of attempting to break my bonds; 
but again, when I felt the smart of the arrows upon my face and 
hands, which were all in blisters, and many of the darts still stick- 
ing in them, and observing likewise that the number of my enemies 
increased, I gave tokens to let them know that they might do with 
me what they pleased. Upon this the hurgo and his train with- 
drew, with much civility and cheerful countenances. Soon after- 
wards I heard a general shout with frequent repetitions of the 
words, Peplom selan ; and I felt great numbers of people on my 
left side, relaxing the cords to such a degree that I was able to 
turn upon my right and to ease myself with making water, 
which I very plentifully did, to the great astonishment of the peo- 
ple, who, conjecturing by my motion what I was going to do, im- 
mediately opened to the right and left on that side to avoid the 
torrent, which fell with noise and violence from me. But before 
this they had daubed my face and both my hands with a sort of 
ointment, very pleasant to the smell, which, in a few minutes, re- 
moved all the smart of their arrows. These circumstances, added 
to the refreshment I had received by their victuals and drink, 
which were very nourishing, disposed me to sleep. I slept about 
eight hours, as I was afterwards assured ; and it was no wonder, for 
the physicians, by the emperor's order, had mingled a sleepy potion 
in the hogsheads of wine. 

It seems that, upon the first moment I was discovered sleeping 
on the ground after my landing, the emperor had early notice of 
it by an express, and determined, in council, that I should be tied 
in the manner I have related (which was done in the night, while 
I slept), that plenty of meat and drink should be sent to me, and 
a machine prepared to carry me to the capital city. 

This resolution, perhaps, may appear very bold and dangerous, 
and, I am confident, would not be imitated by any prince in 
Europe on the like occasion. However, in my opinion, it was ex- 
tremely prudent, as well as generous ; for, supposing these people 
had endeavored to kill me with their spears and arrows while I was 
asleep, I should certainly have awaked with the first sense of smart, 
which might so far have roused my rage and strength as to have 
enabled me to break the strings wherewith I was tied; after which, 
as they were not able to make resistance, so they could expect no 
mercy. 



yonathan Swift ^ D.D, 155 

Tliese people are most excellent mathematicians, and arrived to 
a great perfection in mechanics, by the countenance and encour- 
agement of the emperor, who is a renowned patron of learning. 
This prince has several machines fixed on wheels for the carriage 
of trees and other great weights. He often builds his largest men- 
of-war, whereof some are nine feet long, in the woods where the tim- 
ber grows, and has them carried on these engines three or four hun- 
dred yards to the sea. Five hundred carpenters and engineers were 
immediately set at work to prepare the greatest engine they had. 
It v/as a frame of wood raised three inches from the ground, about 
seven feet long and four wide, moving upon twenty-two wheels. The 
shout I heard was upon the arrival of this engine, which, it seems, 
set out in four hours after my landing. It was brought parallel 
to me as I lay. But the principal difficulty was to raise and place 
me ill this vehicle. Eighty poles, each of one foot high, were 
erected for this pur230se, and very strong cords, of the bigness of 
pack-thread, were fastened by hooks to many bandages which the 
workmen had girt round my neck, my hands, my body, and my 
legs. Nine hundred of the strongest men were employed to draw 
up these cords, by many pulleys fastened on the poles ; and thus, in 
less than three hours, I was raised and slung into the engine, and 
there tied fast. All this I was told ; for, while the whole operation 
was performing, I lay in a profound sleep, by the force of that 
soporiferous medicine infused into my liquor. Fifteen hundred of 
the emperor's largest horses, each about four inches and a half 
high, were employed to draw me towards the metropolis, which, as 
I said, was half a mile distant. 

About foar hours after we began our journey, I awaked by a 
very ridiculous accident ; for the carriage being stopped a while, to 
adjust something that was out of order, two or three of the young 
natives had the curiosity to see how I looked when I was asleep; 
they climbed up into the engine, and, advancing very softly to my 
face, one of them, an officer in the guards, put the sharp end of 
his half -pike a good way up into my left nostril, which tickled my 
nose like a straw, and made me sneeze violently; whereupon they 
stole off unperceived, and it was three weeks before I knew the 
cause of my waking so suddenly. We made a long march the re- 
maining part of the day, and rested at night with five hundred 
guards on each side of me, half with torches, and half with bows 
and arrows, ready to shoot me if I should offer to stir. The next 



156 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland. 

morning at sunrise we continued our march, and arrived within 
two hundred yards of the city gates about noon. The emperor 
and all his court came out to meet us ; but his great officers would by 
no means suffer his majesty to endanger his person by mounting on 
my body. 

At the place where the carriage stopped there stood an ancient 
temjile, esteemed to be the largest in the whole kingdom ; which, 
having been polluted some years before by an unnatural murder, 
was, according to the zeal of those people, looked upon as profane, 
and therefore had been applied to common use, and all the orna- 
ments and furniture carried away. In this edifice it was determined 
I should lodsfe. The sri'eat arate frontins: to the north was about four 
feet high, and almost two feet wide, through which I could easily 
creep. On each side of the gate was a small window, not above six 
inches from the ground : into ihat on the left side the king's smith 
conveved four score and eleven chains, like those that hansr to a 
lady's watch in Europe, and almost as large, which were locked to 
my left leg with six-and-thirty padlocks. Over against this temple, 
on the other side of the sn-eat hi2:hwav, at twentv feet distance, 
there was a turret at least five feet high. Here the emperor as- 
cended, with many principal lords of his court, to have an oppor- 
tunity of viewing me, as I was told, for I could not see them. It 
was reckoned that above a hundred thousand inhabitants came out 
of the town upon the same errand ; and, in spite of my guards, I 
believe there could not be fewer than ten thousand at several 
times, who mounted my body by the help of ladders. But a pro- 
clamation was soon issued to forbid it ujion pain of death. When 
the workmen found it was impossible for me to break loose, tliey 
cut all the strings that bound me ; whereupon I rose up with as 
melancholy a disposition as ever I had in my life. But the noise 
and astonishment of the people at seeing me rise and walk are not 
to be expressed. The chains that held my left leg were about two 
yards long, and gave me not only the liberty of walking backwards 
and forwards in a semicircle, but, being fixed within four inches of 
the gate, allowed me to creep in, and lie at my full length in the 
temple." 

<° After a number of wonderful adventures related in eight chapters, of which the 
foregoing is the first, Gulliver escaped from Lilliput and returned home. 



Jonathan Swift ^ D,D. 157 



A VOYAGE TO BROBDIXGXAG. 

A great storm described, the long-boat sent to fetch water — Gulliver goes with 
it to discover the country — He is left on shore, is seized by one of the natives, 
and carried to a farmers house — His reception, with several accidents that 
happened there — A descriptiou of the inhabitants, 

Havixg been condemned by nature and fortune to an active and 
restless life, in two months after my return I again left my native 
country and took shipping in the Downs on the 20th day of June, 
1702, in the Adventure, Cap)tain John Xicholas, a Coruishman, 
commander, bound for Surat. We had a very prosperous gale till 
we arrived at the Cape of Good Hope, where we landed for fi'esh 
water ; but, discovering a leak, we unshipped our goods and win- 
tered there ; for the captain, falling sick of an ague, we could not 
leave the Cape till the end of March. We then set sail, and had 
a good Toyage till we passed the Straits of Madagascar ; but hav- 
ing: ffot northward of that island and to about five detjrees south 
latitude, the winds, which in those seas are observed to blow a con- 
stant equal gale between the north and west, from the beginning 
of December to the beginning of May, on the 19th of April began 
to blow with much greater violence, and more westerly than usual, 
continuing so for twenty days together, during which time we 
were driven a little to the east of the Molucca Islands and about 
three degrees northward of the line, as our captain found by an 
observation he took the 2nd of Mav, at which time the wind 
ceased, and it was a perfect calm, whereat I was not a little re- 
joiced. But he, being a man well experienced in the navigation 
of those seas, bid us all prepare against a storm, which accordingly 
happened the day following ; for the southern wind, called the 
southern monsoon, began to set in. 

Finding it was likely to overblow [what follows is a happy 
parody of the sea-terms in old voyages], we took in our spritsail 
and stood to hand the foresail ; but, making foul weather, we 
looked the guns were all fast, and handed the mizzen. The ship 
lay very broad off, so we thought it better sjoooning before the sea 
than trying or hulling. We reefed the foresail, and set him, and 
hauled aft the foresheet ; the helm was hard-a-weather. The ship 
wore bravely. We belayed the fore-downhaul ; but the sail was 
split, and we hauled down the yard and got the sail into the ship, 
and unbound all the things clear of it. It was a very fierce storm ; 



158 The Prose and Poetjy of Irela7id. 

the sea broke strange and dangerous. We hauled off upon the 
>anyard of the whipstaff and helped the man at the helm, TTe 
could not get do^n our topmast but let all stand, because she 
scudded before the sea yery well, and we knew that the topmast 
being aloft the ship was the wholesomer, and made better way 
through the sea, seeing we had sea-room. When the storm was 
over we set foresail and mainsail, and brought the ship to. Then 
we set the mizzeu, maintopsail, and the foretopsail. Our course 
was east-north-east, the wind was at sottthwest. We got the star- 
board tacks aboard, we east off our weather-braces and lifts, we 
set-in the lee-braces and hauled forward bv the weather-bo wlinsfs, 
and hauled them tight, and belayed them, and hauled over the 
mizzen tack to windward, and ke]3t her full and by as near as she 
would lie. 

Dtiring this storm, which was followed by a strong wind west- 
south-west, we were carried, by my computation, about five hun- 
dred leagues to the east, so that the eldest sailor on board could 
not tell in what part of the world we were. Our provisions held 
out well, our ship was stanch, and otir crew all in good health; 
but we lay in the utmost distress for water. We thought it best 
to hold on the same course rather than turn more northerly, which 
might haye brought us to the northwest part of G-reat Tartary and 
into the Frozen Sea. 

On the 16th day of June, 1703, a boy on the topmast discovered 
land. On the ITth we came in full view of a great island or conti- 
nent (for we knew not whether), on the south side whereof was a 
small neck of land jutting out into the sea, and a creek too shallow 
to hold a ship of above one hundred tons. We cast anchor within 
a league of this creek, and our captain sent a dozen of his men well 
armed in the long-boat, with vessels for water, if any could be 
found. I desired his leave to go with them that I might see the 
country and make what discoveries I could. When we came to 
land we saw no river or spring nor any sign of inhabitants. Our 
men, therefore, wandered on the shore to find out some fresh water 
near the sea, and I walked alone about a mile on the other side, 
where I observed the country all barren and rocky. I now began 
to be weary, and, seeing nothing to entertain my citriosity, I re- 
turned gently down towards the creek, and, the sea being fuU in my 
view, I saw our men ah'eady got into the boat and rowing for life 
to the ship. I was going to holloa after them, although it had 



Jonathan Swift, D.D. 159 

been to little purpose, Avlieii I observed a huge creature walking 
after tliem in tlie sea as fast as he could ; he waded not much 
deeper than his knees, and took prodigious strides ; but our men 
had the start of him half a league, and the sea thereabouts being 
full of sharp-pointed rocks, the monster was not able to overtake 
the boat. This I was afterwards told, for I durst not stay to see 
the issue of the adventure, but ran as fast as I could the way I first 
went, and then climbed up a steep hill which gave me some pros- 
pect of the country. I found it fully cultivated ; but that which 
first surprised me was the length of the grass, which, in those 
grounds that seemed to be kept for hay, was about twenty feet 
high. 

I fell into a high road, for so I took it to be, though it served to 
the inhabitants only as a footpath through a field of barley. Here 
I walked on for some time, but could see little on either side, it 
being now near harvest, and the com rising at least forty feet. I 
was an hour walking to the end of this field, which was fenced in 
with a hedge of at least one hundred and twenty feet high, and the 
trees so lofty that I could make no computation of their altitude. 
There was a stile to pass from this field into the next. It had four 
steps and a stone to cross over when you came to the uppermost. 
It was impossible for me to climb this stile, because every step was 
six feet high, and the upper stone about twenty. I was endeavor- 
ing to find some ga}) in the hedge when I discovered one of the 
inhabitants in the next field, advancing towards the stile, of the 
same size with him whom I saw in the sea pursuing our boat. He 
appeared as tall as an ordinary spire-steeple, and took about ten 
yards at every stride, as near as I could guess. I was struck with 
the utmost fear and astonishment, and ran to hide myself in the 
corn, whence I saw him at the top of the stile, looking back into 
the next field on the right hand, and heard him call in a voice 
many degrees louder than a speaking-trumpet ; but the noise was 
so high in the air that at first I certainly thought it was thunder. 
Whereupon seven monsters, like himself, came towards him with 
reaping-hooks in their hands, each hook about the largeness of six 
scythes. These people were not so well clad as the first, whose 
servants or laborers they seemed to be ; for upon some words he 
spoke they went to reap the corn in the field where I lay. I kept 
from them at as great a distance as I could, but was forced to move 
with extreme difficultv, for the stalks of the corn were sometimes 



1 60 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

not above a foot distant, so tliat I could hardly squeeze my body 
betwixt them. However, I made a shift to go forward till I came 
to a part of the field where the corn had been laid by the rain and 
wind. Here it was impossible for me to advance a step, for the 
stalks were so interwoven that I could not creep through, and the 
beards of the fallen ears so strong and pointed that they pierced 
through my clothes into my flesh. At the same time I heard the 
reapers not above a hundred yards behind me. Being quite dis- 
pirited with toil, and wholly overcome by grief and despair, I lay 
down between two ridges and heartily wished I might there end my 
days. I bemoaned my desolate widow and fatherless children. I 
lamented my own folly and wilfulness in attempting a second voyage, 
against the advice of all my friends and relations. In this terrible 
agitation of mind I could not forbear thinking of Lilliput, whose 
inhabitants looked upon me as the greatest prodigy that ever ap- 
peared in the world ; where I was able to draw an imperial fleet in 
my hand and perform those other actions which will be recorded 
for ever in the chronicles of that empire, while posterity shall hardly 
believe them, although attested by millions. I reflected what a 
mortification it must prove to me to appear as inconsiderable 
in this nation as one single Lilliputian would be among us. But 
this I conceived was to be the least of my misfortunes ; for, as 
human creatures are observed to be more savage and cruel in jDro- 
portion to their bulk, what could I expect but to be a morsel iu the 
mouth of the first among these enormous barbarians that should 
happen to seize me ? Undoubtedly philosoj^hers are in the right 
when they tell us that nothing is great or little otherwise than by 
comparison. It might have pleased fortune to have let the Lillipu- 
tians find some nation where the people were as diminutive with 
respect to them as they were to me. And who knows but that even 
this prodigious race of mortals might be equally overmatched m 
some distant part of the world, whereof we have yet no discovery .^ 
Scared and confounded as I was, I could not forbear going on with 
these reflections, when one of the reapers, approaching within ten 
yards of the ridge where I lay, made me apprehend that with the 
next step I should be squashed to death under his foot, or cut in two 
with his reaping-hook. And therefore, when he was again about to 
move, I screamed as loud as fear could make me , whereupon the 
huge creature trod short, and looking round about under him for 
some time, at last espied me as I lay on the ground. He considered 



Jonathan Swift, D.D. i6i 

a while, with the cautiou of one who endeavors to lay hold on a 
small, dangerous animal in such a manner that it shall not be able 
either to scratch or to bite him, as I myself have sometimes done 
with a weasel in England. At length he ventured to take me be- 
hind, by the middle, between his fore-finger and thumb, and brought 
me within three yards of his eyes, that he might behold my shape 
more perfectly. I guessed his meaning, and my good fortune gave 
me so much presence of mind, that I^ resolved not to struggle in the 
least as he held me in the air, above sixty feet from the ground, al- 
though he grievously pinched my sides, for fear I should slip through 
his fingers. All I ventured was to raise mine eyes toward the sun, 
and place my hands together in a suppHcating posture, and to speak 
some words in an humble, melancholy tone, suitable to the condition 
I then was in, for I apprehended every moment that he would dash 
me against the ground, as we usually do any little, hateful animal, 
which we have a mind to destroy. But my good star would have it 
that he appeared pleased with my voice and gestures, and began to 
look upon me as a curiosity, much wondering tb hear me pronounce 
articulate words, although he could not understand them. In the 
mean time, I was not able to forbear groaning, and shedding tears, 
and turning my head towards my sides, letting him know, as well 
as I could, how cruelly I was hurt by the pressure of his thumb and 
finger. He seemed to apprehend my meaning ; for lifting up tht 
lappet of his coat, he put me gently into it, and immediately ran 
along with me to his master, who was a substantial farmer, and the. 
same person I had first seen in the field. 

The farmer having (as I supposed by their talk) received such an 
account of me as his servant could give him, took a piece of a small 
straw, about the size of a walking staff, and therewith lifted up the 
lappets of my coat ; which, it seems, he thought to be some kind of 
covering that nature had given me. He blew my hairs aside to 
take a better view of my face. He called his hinds about him, and 
asked them, as I afterwards learned, ''Whether they had ever seen 
in tlie fields any little creature that resembled me ? " He then 
placed me softly on the ground upon all four, but I got immediately 
up, and walked slowly backward and forward, to let those peoj^le see 
I had no intent to run away. They all sat down in a circle about 
me, the better to observe my motions. I pulled off my hat, and 
made a low bow towards the farmer. I fell on my knees, and lifted 
up my hands and eyes, and spoke several words as loud as I could ; 



1 62 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

I took a purse of gold out of my pocket, and humbly presented it to 
him. He receiyed it on the palm of his hand, then applied it close 
to his eye to see what it was, and afterwards turned it several times 
with the point of a pin (which he took out of his sleeve), but could 
make nothing of it. Whereupon I made a sign that he should 
place his hand on the ground. I then took the purse, and opening 
it poured all the gold into liis palm. There were six Spanish pieces 
of four pistoles each, besides twenty or thirty smaller coins. I saw 
him wet the tip of his little finger upon his tongue, and take up one 
of my largest pieces, and then another ; but he seemed to be wholly 
ignorant what they were. He made me a sign to jDut them again 
into my purse, and the purse again into my pocket, which, after 
offering it to him several times, I thought it best to do. 

The farmer, by this time, was convinced I must be a rational 
creature. He spoke often to me ; but the sound of his voice pierced 
my ears like that of a water-mill, yet his words were articulate 
enough. I answered as loud as I could in several languages, and 
he often laid his eSr within two yards of me, but all in vain, for 
we were wholly unintelligible to each other. He then sent his ser- 
vants to their work, and taking his handkerchief out of his pocket, 
de doubled and spread it on his left hand, which he jDlaced flat on 
the ground, with the palm upward, making me a sign to step into 
it, as I could easily do, for it was not above a foot in thickness. I 
thought it my part to obey ; and, for fear of falling, laid myself at 
full length upon the handkerchief, with the remainder of which he 
lapped me up to the head for further security, and in this manner 
carried me home to his house. There he called his wife, and 
showed me to her : but she screamed and ran back, as women in 
England do at the sight of a toad or a sjoider. However, when she 
had awhile seen my behavior, and how well I observed the signs her 
husband made, she was soon reconciled, and by degrees grew ex- 
tremely tender of me. 

It was about twelve at noon, and a servant brought in dinner. 
It was only one substantial dish of meat (fit for the plain condition 
of a husbandman), in a dish of about four-and- twenty feet diameter. 
The company were, the farmer and his wife, three children, and an 
old grandmother. "When they were sat down, the farmer placed me 
at some distance from him on the table, which was thirty feet high 
from the floor. I was in a terrible fright, and kept as far as I could 
from the edge, for fear of falling. The wife minced a bit of meat, 



yonathmi Swift ^ D.D, \6 



v) 



then crumbled some bread on a trencher, and placed it before me. 
I made her a low bow, took out my knife and fork, aud fell to eat, 
which gave them exceeding delight. The mistress sent her maid 
for a small dram-cup which held about two gallons, and filled it with 
drink ; I took up the vessel with much difficulty in both hands, and 
in a most respectful manner drank to her ladyship's health, ex- 
pressing the words as loud as I could in English, vv^hich made the 
company laugh so heartily that I was almost deafened with the " 
noise. This liquor tasted like a small cider, and was not unpleasant. 
Then the master made me a sign to come to his trencher side ; but as 
I walked on the table, being in great surprise all the time, as the 
indulgent reader will easily conceive and excuse, I happened to 
stumble against a crust, and fell flat on my face, but received no 
hurt. I got up immediately, and observing the good people to be 
in much concern, I took my hat (which I held under my arm out 
of good manners), and waving it over my head, made three huzzas, 
to show I had got no mischief by my fall. But advancing forward 
towards my master (as I shall henceforth call him) his youngest 
son, who sat next to him, an arch boy of about ten years old, took 
me by the legs, and held me so high in the air, that I trembled 
every limb ; but his father snatched me from him, and at the same 
time gave him such a box on the left ear as would have felled an 
European troop of horse to the earth, ordering him to be taken from 
the table. But being afraid the boy might owe me a spite, and 
well remembering how mischievous all children among us naturally 
are to sparrows, rabbits, young kittens, and puppy-dogs, I fell on 
my knees, and, pointing to the boy, made my master to understand, 
as well as I could, that I desired his son might be pardoned. The 
father complied and the lad took his seat again, whereupon I went 
to him and kissed his hand, which my master took, and made him 
stroke me gently with it. 

In the midst of dinner my mistress's favorite cat leaped into her 
lap. I heard a noise behind me like that of a dozen stocking- 
weavers at work, and, turning my head, I found it proceeded from 
the purring of that animal, who seemed to be three times larger 
than an ox, as I computed by the view of her head and one of her 
paws while her mistress was feeding and stroking her. The fierce- 
ness of this creature's countenance altogether discomposed me, 
though I stood at the farther end of the table, about fifty feet off, 
and although my mistress held her fast for fear she might give a 



1 64 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

spring and seize me in her talons. But it happened there was no 
danger, for the cat took not the least notice of me when my master 
placed we within three yards of her. And, as I have been always 
told, and found true by experience in my travels, that flying or dis- 
covering fear before a fierce animal is a certain way to make it 
pursue or attack you, so I resolved in this dangerous juncture to 
show no manner of concern. I walked with intrepidity five or six 
times before the very head of tlie cat, and came within half a yard 
of her, whereupon she drew herself back, as if she were more afraid 
of me. I had less apprehension concerning the dogs, whereof three 
or four came into the room, as it is usual in farmers' houses, one 
of which was a mastiff, equal in bulk to four elephants, and a grey- 
hound, somewhat taller than the mastiff but not so large. 

When dinner was almost done the nurse came in with a child 
of a year old in her arms, who immediately espied me and began a 
squall that you might have heard from London Bridge to Chelsea, 
after the usual oratory of infants, to get me for a plaything. The- 
mother, out of pure indulgence, took me up and put me towards 
the child, who presently seJzed me by the middle and got my head 
into his mouth, where I roared so loud that the urchin was frighted 
and let me drop, and I should infallibly have broke my neck if the 
mother had not held her apron under me. The nurse, to quiet her 
babe, made use of a rattle, which was a kind of hollow vessel filled 
with great stones, and fastened by a cable to the child's waist ; but 
all in vain, so that she was forced" to apply the last remedy by giving 
it suck. I must confess no object ever disgusted me so much as 
the sight of her monstrous breast, which I cannot tell what to com- 
pare with so as to give the curious reader an idea of its bulk, shape, 
and color. It stood prominent six feet, and could not be less than 
sixteen in circumference. The nipple was about half the bigness 
of my head, and the hue, both of that and the du^, so varied with 
spots, pimples, and freckles, that nothing could appear more 
nauseous : for I had a near sight of her, she sitting down, the more 
conveniently to give suck, and I standing on the table. This made 
me reflect upon the fair skins of our English ladies, who appear so 
beautiful to us only because they are of our own size, and their 
defects not to be seen but through a magnifying glass, where we 
find by experiment that the smoothest and whitest skins look rough, 
and coarse, and ill-colored. 

I remember, when I was at Lilliput, the complexions of those 



yonatkan Swift, D.D. 165 

diminutive people appeared to me the fairest in the world ; and 
talking upon this subject with a person of learning there, who was 
an intimate friend of mine, he said that my face appeared much 
fairer and smoother when he looked on me from the ground than it 
did upon a nearer view when I took him up in my hand and 
brought him close, which he confessed was at first a very shocking 
sight. He said '^he could discover great holes in my skin; that 
the stumps of my beard were ten times stronger than the bristles 
of a boar, and my complexion made up of several colors altogether 
disagreeable " ; although I must beg leave to say for myself that I 
am as fair as most of my sex and country, and very little sunburnt 
by all my travels. On the other side, discoursing of the ladies in. 
that emperor's court, he used to tell me "one had freckles, another 
too wide a mouth, a third too large a nose" ; nothing of which I 
was able to distinguish. I confess this reflection Avas obvious 
enough, which, however, I could not forbear, lest the reader might 
think those vast creatures were actually deformed : for I must do 
them the justice to say they are a comely race of people ; and par- 
ticularly the features of my master's countenance, although he were 
but a farmer, when I beheld him from the height of sixty feet, ap- 
peared very well proportioned. 

When dinner was done my master went out to his laborers, and, 
as I could discover by his voice and gestures, gave his wife a strict 
charge to take care of me. I was very much tired and disposed to 
sleep, which my mistress perceiving, she put me on her own bed, 
and covered me with a clean white handkerchief, but larger and 
coarser than the mainsail of a man-of-war. 

I slept about two hours, and dreamt I was at home with my wife 
and children, which aggravated my sorrows when I awaked and 
found myself alone in a vast room between two and three hundred 
feet wide and above two hundred high, lying in a bed twenty yards 
wide. My mistress was gone about her household affairs and had 
locked me in. The bed was eight yards from the floor. Some 
natural necessities required me to get down; I durst not presume 
to call; and if I had it would have been in vain, with such a voice 
as mine, at so great a distance as from the room where I lay to the 
kitchen where the family kept. While I was under these circum- 
stances, two rats crept up the bed-curtains, and ran smelling back- 
wards and forwards on the bed. One of them came np almost to my 
face, whereupon I rose in a fright, and drew out mv hanger to defend 



1 66 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

myself. These horrible animals had the boldness to attack me on both 
sides, and one of them held his forefeet at my collar ; but I had the 
good fortune to rip up his belly before he could do me any mischief. 
He fell doTTn at my feet ; and the other, seeing the fate of his com 
rade, made his escape, but not without one good wound on the back^ 
which I gave him as he fled, and made the blood run trickling from 
him. After this exploit I walked gently to and fro on the bed to 
recover my breath and loss of sjDirits. These creatures were of the 
size of a large mastiff, but infinitely more nimble and fierce ; so that 
if I had taken off my belt before I went to sleep I must have infal- 
libly been torn to pieces and devoured. I measured the tail of the 
dead rat and found it to be two yards long, wanting an inch; but it 
went against my stomach to drag the carcass off the bed, where it 
lay still bleeding ; I observed it had yet some life, but with a strong 
slash across the neck I thoroughly despatched it. 

Soon after my mistress came into the room, who, seeing me all 
bloody, ran and took me up in her hand. I pointed to the dead rat, 
smiling and making other signs to show I was not hurt ; whereat 
she was extremely rejoiced, calling the maid to take up the dead rat 
with a pair of tongs and throw it out of the window. Then she set 
me on a table, where I showed her my hanger all bloody, and, wiping 
it on the lappet of my coat, returned it to the scabbard. I was 
pressed to do more than one thing which another could not do for 
me, and therefore endeavored to make my mistress understand that 
I desired to be set down on the floor ; which, after she had done, my 
bashfulness would not suffer me to express myself further than by 
pointing to the door and bowing several times. The good woman 
with much difficulty at last perceived what I would be at, and taking 
me up again in her hand walked into the garden where she set me 
down. I went on one side about two hundi'ed yards and beckoned 
to her not to look or to follow me, I hid myself between two leaves 
of sorrel and there discliarged the necessities of nature. 

I hope the gentle reader will excuse me for dwelling on these and 
the hke joarticulars, which, however insignificant they may appear to 
grovelling vulgar minds, yet will certainly lielp a philosopher to en- 
large his thoughts and imagination, and a2:)23ly them to the benefit of 
public as well as private life, which was m}- sole design in presenting 
this and other accounts of my travels to the world : wherein I have 
been chiefly studious of truth, without affecting any ornaments of 
learning or of style. But the wliole scene of this voyage made so 



Jo7iathan Swift ^ D.D. 167 

strong an impression on my mind, and is so deeply fixed in my me- 
mory, that, in committing it to paper, I did not omit one material 
circumstance : howeyer, upon a strict review, I blotted ont several 
passages of less moment, which were in my first copy, for fear of 
being censured as tedious and trifling, whereof travellers are often, 
perhaps not without justice, accused.*^ 



THE FIRST OF DRAPIER'S LETTERS. « 

TO THE TRADESM3N, SHOPKEEPERS, FARMERS, AND COUNTRY PEOPLE IN GENERAL 

OF THE KINGDOM OF IRELAND. 

Concerning the brass JicUfpence coined by one William Wood, hardwareman, with a design to 

have them pass in this kingdom : 

Wherein is shown the power of his patent, the value of his halfpence, and how 
far every person may be obliged to take the same in payments, and how to 
behave himself, in case such an attempt should be made by Wood, or any 
other person. 

(very proper to be kept in every family.) 

By M. B. Drapler, 1724. 
Brethren, Friej^ds, Cou:N^TRTMEiir, axd Fellow-subjects : 

What I intend now to say to you is, next to your duty to God and 
the care of your salvation, of the greatest concern to yourselves and 
your children ; vour bread and clotliins;, and everv common neces- 
sary of life, entirely depend u^^on it. Therefore, I do most earn- 
estly exhort you as men, as Christians, as parents, and as lovers of 
your country, to read this paper with the utmost attention, or get 
it read to you by others ; which that you may do at the less expense, 
I have ordered the printer to sell it at the lowest rate. 

It is a great fault among you that, when a person writes with no 
other intention than to do j^ou good, you will not be at the pains to 
read his advices. One copy of this paper may serve a dozen of you, 
which will be less than a farthing apiece. It is your folly that you 
have no common or general interest in your view, not even the 
wisest among you ; neither do you know, or enquire, or care who are 
your friends^ or who are your enemies. 

*' The voyage to Brobdingnag takes up eight chapters, of which the foregoing is the 
first. 

■'-In this letter Swift assumed the character of a draper, which for some reu-son he 
chose to write Drapier. The " Drapier " letters were seven in number. 



1 68 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

About four years ago a little book was written to advise all people 
to wear the manufactures of this our own dear country. It had no 
other design, said nothing against the king or parliament, or any 
j)erson whatsoever ; yet the poor printer was prosecuted two years 
with the utmost violence ; and even some weavers themselves (for 
whose sake it was written), being upon the jury, found him guilty. 
This would be enough to discourage any man from endeavoring to 
do you good, when you will either neglect him or fly in his face for 
his pains, and when he must expect only danger to himself, and to 
be fined and imprisoned, perhaps to his ruin. 

However, I cannot but warn you once more of tlie manifest de- 
struction before your eyes, if you do not behave yourselves as you 

OUSfht. 

o 

I will therefore first tell you the plain story of the fact ; and 
then I will lay before you how you ought to act, in common pru- 
dence, according to the laws of your country. 

The fact is this : It having been many years since copper half- 
pence or farthings were last coined in this kingdom, they have been 
for some time very scarce, and many counterfeits passed about 
under the name of raps; several applications were made to Eng- 
land that we might have liberty to coin new ones, as in former times 
w^e did ; but they did not succeed. At last one Mr. "W'ood, a mean, 
ordinary man — a hardware-dealer — procured a patent under his 
majesty's broad seal to coin £108,000 *^ in copper for this kingdom ; 
which patent, however, did not o]:)lige any one here to take them 
unless they pleased. Xow, you must know that the halfpence and 
farthings in England pass for very little more than they are worth, 
and if you should beat them to pieces and sell them to the brazier, 
you would not lose much above a penny in a shilling. But Mr. 
Wood made his halfpence of such base metal, and so much smaller 
than the Ensflish ones, that the brazier would hardlv sive vou above 
a j)enny of good money for a shilling of his ; so that this sum of 
£108,000, in good gold and silver, must be given for trash that will 
not be worth eight or nine thousand pounds real value. But this is 
not the worst ; for Mr. Wood, when he pleases, may by stealth send 
over another £108,000, and buy all our goods for eleven parts in 
twelve under the value. For example, if a hatter sells a dozen of 
hats for bs. apiece, which amounts to £8, and receives the pay- 
ment in Wood's coin, he really receives only the value of bs, 

43 About S540 000. 



Jonatha7i Swift, D.D, 169 

Perhaps you will wonder how such an ordinary fellow as this Mr. 
Wood could have so much interest as to get his majesty's broad 
seal for so great a sum of bad money to be sent to this poor coun- 
try ; and that all the nobility and gentry here could not obtain the 
same favor, and let us make our own halfpence as we used to do. 
Now, I will make tliat matter very plain: we are at a great distance 
from the king's court, and have nobody there to solicit for us, al- 
tliough a great number of lords and squires, whose estates are liere, 
and are our countrymen, spend all their lives and fortunes there ; 
but this same Mr. Wood was able to attend constantly for his own 
interest ; he is an Englishman, and had great friends ; and it seems 
knew very well where to give money to those that would speak to 
others that could speak to the king, and would tell a fair story ; and 
his majesty, and perhaps the great lord or lords who advise him, 
might think it was for our country's good ; and so, as the lawyers 
express it, ^^the king was deceived in his grant," which often ha|)- 
pens in all reigns. And I am sure if his majesty knew that such a 
patent, if it- should take effect according to the desire of Mr. Wood, 
would utterly ruin this kingdom, which has given such great proof 
of its loyalty, he would immediately recall it, and perhaps show his 
displeasure to somebody or other ; but a word to the wise is enough. 
Most of you have heard with what anger our honorable House of 
Commons received an account of this Wood's patent. There were 
several fine speeches made upon it, and plain proofs that it was all 
a wicked cheat from the bottom to the top ; and several smart votes 
were printed which that same Wood had the assurance to answer 
likewise in print, and in so confident a way, as if he were a better 
man than our whole parliament put together. 

This Wood, as soon as his patent was passed, or soon after, sends 
over a great many barrels of those halfpence to Cork and other sea- 
port towns, and to get them off offered a hundred pounds in his 
coin for seventy or eighty in silver ; but the collectors of the king's 
customs very honestly refused to take them, and so did almost 
everybody else. And since the Parliament has condemned them, 
and desired the king that they might be stojiped, all the kingdom 
do abominate them. 

But Wood is still working underhand to force his halfpence upon 
us, and if he can, by the help of his friends in England, j^revail so 
far as to get an order that the commissioners and collectors of the 
king's money shall receive them, and that the army is to be paid 



1 JO The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

with them, then he thinks his work shall be done. And this is the 
difficulty YOU will be under in such a case ; for the common soldier, 
when he goes to the market or alehouse, will offer this money, and 
if it be refused, perhaps he will swagger and hector, and threaten to 
beat the butcher or alewife, or take the goods by force and throw 
them the bad halfpence. In this and the like cases the shopkeeper 
or victualler, or any other tradesman, has no more to do than to 
demand ten times the price of his goods, if it is to be paid in 
Wood's money ; for example, 20d. of that money for a quart of ale, 
and so in all things else, and not part with his goods till he gets 
the money. 

For, suppose you go to an alehouse with that base money, and the 
landlord gives you a quart for four of those half]3ence, what must 
the victualler do ? His brewer will not be paid in that coin ; or, if 
the brewer should be such a fool, the farmers will not take it from 
them for their here," because they are bound by their leases to pay 
their rent in good and lawful money of England, which this is not, 
nor of Ireland neither ; and the squire, their landlord, will never be 
so bewitched to take such trash for his land, so that it must certainly 
stop somewhere or other, and wherever it stops it is the same thing, 
and we are all undone. 

The common weight of these halfpence is between four and five 
to an ounce — suppose five ; then 3s. -id. will weigh a pound, and 
consequently 20s. will weigh six pounds, butter weight. Xow, 
there are many hundred farmers who pay £200 a year rent ; there- 
fore, when one of these farmers comes with his half-year's rent, 
which is £100, it will be at least six hundred pounds' weight, which 
is three horses' load. 

If a squire has a mind to come to town to buy clothes and wine 
and spices for himself and family, or perhaps to pass the winter 
here, he must bring with him five or six horses well laden with 
sacks, as the famers bring their corn ; and when his lady comes in 
her coach to our shops, it must be followed by a car loaded with 
Mr. Wood's money. And I hope we shall have the grace to take it 
for no more than it is worth. 

They say Squire Conolly [the speaker] has £16,000 a year ; now, 
if he sends for his rent to town, as it is likely he does, he must 
have 250 horses to bring up his half-year's rent, and two or three 
great cellars in his house for stowage. But what the bankers wiU 

<* A sort of barley in Ireland. 



yonathan Swift, D.D, 171 

do I cannot tell, for I am assured that some great bankers keep by 
them £40,000 in ready cash to answer all payments, which snm, in 
Mr. Wood's money, would require 1200 horses to carry it. 

For my own part, I am already resolved what to do. I have a 
pretty good shop of Irish stuffs and silks, and, instead of taking 
Mr. Wood's bad copper, I intend to truck with my neighbors the 
butchers and bakers and brewers and the rest goods for goods ; and 
the little gold and silver I have I will keep by me, like my heart's 
blood, till better times, or until I am just ready to starve, and then 
I will buy Mr. Wood's money, as my father did the brass money in 
King James's time, who could buy £10 of it with a guinea, and I 
hope to get as much for a pistole, and so |)urchase bread from those 
who will be such fools as to sell it me. 

These halfpence, if they once pass, will soon be counterfeited, 
because it may be cheaply done, the stuff is so base. The Dutch 
likewise will probably do the same thing, and send them over to us 
to pay for our goods ; and Mr. Wood will never be at rest but coin 
on, so that in some years we shall have at least five times £108,000 
of this lumber. Now the current money of this kingdom is not 
reckoned to be above £400,000 in all ; and while there is a silver 
sixpence left these bloodsuckers will never be quiet. 

When once the kingdom is reduced to such a condition, I will 
tell you what must be the end : the gentlemen of estates will all 
turn off their tenants for want of payments, because, as I told you 
before, the tenants are obliged by their leases to pay sterling, which 
is lawful current money of England ; then they will turn their own 
farmers, as too many of them do already, run all into sheep where 
they can, keeping only such other cattle as are necessary ; then they 
will be their own merchants, and send their wool, and butter, and 
hides, and linen beyond sea, for ready money, and wine, and spices, 
and silks. They will keep only a few miserable cottagers : the 
farmers must rob, or beg, or leave their country ; the shopkeepers 
in this and every other town must break and starve ; for it is the 
landed man that maintains the merchant, and shopkeeper, and 
handicraftsman. 

But when the 'squire turns farmer and merchant himself, all the 
good money he gets from abroad he will hoard up to send for Eng- 
land, and keep some poor tailor or weaver and the like in his own 
house, who will be glad to get bread at any rate. 

I should never have done if I were to tell you all the miseries 



172 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

that we shall nndergo if Tre be so ffiolish and wicked as to take this 
cursed coin. It would be reiy hard if all Ireland should be jDut 
into one scale and this sorry fellow "Wood into the other; that Mr. 
Wood should weigh down this whole kingdom, by which England 
gets above a million of good money every year clear into their pock- 
ets : and that is more than the English do by all the world besides. 

But yotir great comfort is, that as his majesty's patent does not 
oblige you to take this money, so the laws have not given the crown 
a power of forcing the subject to take what money the king pleases; 
for then, by the same reason, we might be bound to take j^ebble- 
stones, or cockle-shells, or stamj^ed leather, for current coin, if ever 
we should happen to live tinder an ill prince, who might likewise, 
by the same power, make a guinea j^ass for ten pounds, a shilling 
for twenty shillings, and so on, by which he would, in a short time, 
get all the silver and gold of the kingdom into his own hands, and 
leave us nothing but brass or leather, or what he pleased. Xeither 
is anything reckoned more cruel and oppressive in the Erench Gov- 
ernment than their common practice of calling in all their money, 
after they have sunk it very low, and then coining it anew at a 
much higher value, which, however, is not a thousandth part so 
wicked as this abominable project of Mr. "Wood. Eor the French 
give their subjects silver for silver and gold for gold, but this fel- 
low will not so much as give us good brass or coj^per for our gold 
and silver, nor even a twelfth j^aii; of theii' worth. 

Having said thus much, I will now go on to tell you the judg- 
ment of some great lawyers in this matter, whom I feed on purpose 
for your sakes, and got their opinions under their hands, that I 
might be sure I went upon good grounds. 

A famous law-book, called '*' The Mirror of Justice,*' discoursing 
of the charters (or laws) ordained by our ancient kings, declares 
the law to be as follows: ••It was ordained that no king of this 
realm should change or impair the money, or make any other money 
than of gold or silver, without the assent of all the counties " ; that 
is, as my Lord Coke says, without the assent of Parliament. 

This book is veiy ancient and of great atithority for the time in 
which it was written, and with that character is often quoted by 
that great lawyer, my Lord Coke. By the law of England the 
several metals are diAdded into lawful or true metal and unlawful or 
false metal : the former comprehends silver and gold, the latter all 
baser metals. That the former is only to pass in payments appears 



yonathan Swift, D.D, 173 

by an act of Parliament made the twentieth year of Edward I., 
called the statute concerning the passing of pence, which I give 
you here as I got it translated into English ; for some of our laws 
at that time were, as I am told, written in Latin : ^' Whoever, in 
buying or selling, jjresumes to refuse a halfpenny or farthing of 
lawful money, bearing the stamp which it ought to have, let him be 
seized on as a contemner of the king's majesty and cast into 
prison." 

By this statute no person is to be reckoned a contemner of the 
king's majesty and for that crime to be committed to prison, but he 
who refuses to accept the king's coin, made of lawful metal, by 
which, as I observed before, silver and gold only are intended. 

That this is the true construction of the act appears not only 
from the plain meaning of the words, but from my Lord Coke's 
observation upon it. ^* By this act," says he, ^^it appears that no 
subject can be forced to take, in buying or selling or other pay- 
ment, any money made out of lawful metal — that is, of silver or 
gold." 

The law of England gives the king all mines of gold and silver, 
but not the mines of other metals ; the reason of which prerogative 
or power, as it is given by my Lord Coke, is, because money can be 
made of gold and silver, but not of other metals. 

Pursuant to this opinion halfpence and farthings were anciently 
made of silver, which is evident from the act of Parliament of 
Henry lY., cli. 4, whereby it is enacted as follows : *' Item, for the 
great scarcity that is at present within the realm of England of 
halfpence and farthings of silver, it is ordained and established 
that the third part of all the money of silver plate which shall be 
brought to the bullion shall be made into halfpence and farthings." 
Tliis shows that by the words '^ halfpence and farthings of lawful 
money," in that statute concerning the j)assing of ^^ence, is meant a 
small coin in halfpence and farthings of silver. 

This is further manifest from the statute of the 9th Edward IIL, 
ch. 3, which enacts '''that no sterling half -penny or farthing be 
molten for to make vessels, or any other thing, by the goldsmiths 
or others, upon forfeiture of the money so molten " (or melted). 

By another act in this king's reign black money was not to be 
current in England. And by an act in the 11th year of his reign, 
ch. 5, galley halfpence were not to pass. What kind of coin these 
were I do not know, but I presume they were made of base metal. 



1 74 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

And these acts were no new laws, but further declarations of the 
old laws relative to the coin. 

Thus the law stands in relation to coin. Nor is there any exam- 
ple to the contrary, except one in Davis's Reports, who tells us 
^^ that in the time of Tyrone's rebellion Queen Elizabeth ordered 
money of mixed metal to be coined in the Tower of London, and 
sent over hither for the payment of the army, obliging all people 
to receive it, and commanding that all silver money should be 
taken only as bullion " — that is, for as much as it weighed. Davis 
tells us several particulars in this matter, too long here to trouble 
you with, and ^^ that the Privy Council of this kingdom obliged a 
merchant in England to receive this mixed money for goods trans- 
mitted hither." 

But this proceeding is rejected by all the best lawyers as con- 
trary to law, the Privy Council here having no such legal power. 
And besides, it is to be considered that the queen was then under 
great difficulties by a rebellion in this kingdom, assisted from Spain, 
and whatever is done is great exigencies and dangerous times 
should never be an example to proceed by in seasons of peace and 
quietness. 

I will now, my dear friends, to save you the trouble, set before 
you, in short, what the law obliges you to do and what it does not 
oblige you to. 

1st. You are obliged to take all money in payments which is 
coined by the king, and is of the English standard or v^^eight, pro- 
vided it be of gold or silver. 

2dly. You are not obliged to take any money which is not of 
gold or silver ; not only the halfpence or farthings of England, 
but of any other country. And it is merely for convenience or 
ease that you are content to take them, because the custom of 
coining silver halfpence and farthings had long been left off, I sup- 
pose on account of their being subject to be lost. 

3dly. Much less are you obliged to take those vile halfpence of 
the same Wood, by which you must lose almost eleven pence in 
every shilling. 

Therefore, my friends, stand to it one and all, refuse this filthy 
trash. It is no treason to rebel against Mr. Wood. His majesty, 
in his patent, obliges nobody to take these halfpence ; our gracious 
prince has no such ill advisers about him ; or, if he had, yet yon 
see the laws have not left it in the king's power to force us to take 



Jonathan Swift, D.D. ^ 1 75 

any coin but what is lawful, of right standard gold and silver. 
Therefore you have nothing to fear. 

And let me in the next place apply myself particularly to you 
who are the poorer sort of tradesmen. Perliaj)s you may think you 
will not be so great losers as the rich if these halfioence should 
pass, because you seldom see, any silver, and your customers come 
to your shops or stalls with nothing but brass, which you likewise 
find hard to be got. But you may take my word, whenever this 
money gains footing among you, you will be utterly undone. If 
you carry these halfpence to a shop for tobacco or brandy, or any 
other thing that you want, the shopkeeper will advance his goods 
accordingly, or else he must break and leave the key under the 
door. Do you think I will sell you a yard of ten-penny stuff for 
twenty of Mr. Wood's halfpence ? No, not under two hundred at 
least ; neither will I be at the trouble of counting, but weigh them 
in a lump. I will tell you one thing further, that if Mr. Wood's pro- 
ject should take, it would ruin even our beggars ; for when I give a 
beggar a halfpenny it will quench his thirst or go a good way to 
fill his belly, but the twelfth part of a halfpenny will do him no 
more service than if I should give him three pins out of my sleeve. 

In short, these halfpence are like the '^ accursed thing which," 
as the Scripture tells us, ^^ the children of Israel were forbidden to 
touch." They will run about like the plague and destroy every 
one who lays his hand upon them. I have heard scholars talk of a 
man who told the king that he had invented a way to torment peo- 
ple by putting them into a bull of brass with fire under it, but the 
prince put the projector first into his brazen bull to make the ex- 
periment. This very much resembles the project of Mr. Wood, and 
the like of this may possibly be Mr. Wood's fate, that the brass he 
contrived to torment this kingdom with may prove his own torment 
and his destruction at last. 

N. B. The author of this paper is informed, by persons who have 
made it their business to be exact in their observations on the true 
value of these halfpence, that any person may expect to get a quart 
of two-peimy ale for tliiity-six of them. 

I desire that all families may keep this paper carefully by them, 
to refresh their memories whenever they shall have further notice 
of Mr. Wood's halfpence or any other the like imposture. 



I 76 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

A MEDITATION UPON A BUOOMSTICK. 
According to the style and manner of the Honorable Rohert Boyle's Meditations. 

This single stick, which yon now behold inglorionsly lying in 
that neglected corner, I once knew in a flourishing state in a forest; 
it was full of sap, full of leaves, and full of boughs; but now in 
yain does the busy art of man pretend to vie with nature by tying 
that withered bundle of twigs to its sapless trunk; it is now, at 
best, but the reverse of what it was — a tree turned upside down, 
the branches on the earth, and the root in the air ; it is now 
handled by every dirty wench, condemned to do her drudgery, and 
by a capricious kind of fate, destined to make other things clean, 
and be nasty itself ; at length, worn to the stumps in the service of 
the maids, it is either thrown out of doors, or condemned to the 
last use of kindling a fire. When I beheld this I sighed, and said 
within myself, Sueely Majt is a Beoomstick ! Nature sent him 
into the world strong and lusty, in a thriving condition, wearing 
his own hair on his head, the proper branches of this reasoning 
vegetable, until the axe of intemperance has lopped off his green 
boughs, and left him a withered trunk ; he then flies to art, and 
puts on a periwig, valuing himself upon an unnatural bundle of 
hairs (all covered with powder) that never grew on his head ; but 
now should this our broomstick pretend to enter the scene, proud 
of those birchen spoils it never bore, and all covered with dust, 
though the sweepings of the finest lady's chamber, we should be 
apt to ridicule and despise its vanity. Partial judges that we are 
of our own excellences and other men's defaults ! 

But a broomstick perhaps you will say is an emblem of a tree 
standing on its head ; and pray what is man but a topsy-turvy crea 
ture, his animal faculties perpetually mounted on his rational, his 
head where his heels should be, grovelling on the earth ; and yet, 
Avith all his faults, he sets up to be a universal reformer and cor- 
rector of abuses, a remover of grievances, rakes into every slut's 
corner of nature, bringing hidden corruption to the light, and 
raises a mighty dust where there was none before, sharing deeply all 
the while in the very same pollutions he j)retends to sweep away, till, 
worn out to the stumps like his brother besom, he is either kicked 
out of doors, or made use of to kindle flames for others to warm 
themselves by. 



1 



Jonathan Swift, D.D. ijy 

A TREATISE ON GOOD MANNERS AND GOOD BREEDING. ^^ 

Good maimers is the art of making those people easy with whom 
we converse. 

Whoever makes the fewest persons uneasy is the best bred in the 
company. 

As the best law is founded upon reason, so are the best manners. 
And as some lawyers have introduced unreasonable things into com- 
mon law, so likewise many teachers have introduced absurd things 
into common good manners. 

One principal point of this art is, to suit our behavior to the 
three several degrees of men ; our superiors, our equals, and those 
below us. 

For instance, to press either of the two former to eat or drink is 
a breach of manners ; but a tradesman or a farmer must be thus 
treated, or else it will be difficult to persuade them that they are 
welcome. 

Pride, ill-nature, and want of sense, are the three great sources 
of ill-manners : without some one of these defects, no man Avill be- 
have himself ill for want of experience, or of what, in the language 
of fools, is called knowing the world. 

I defy any one to assign an incident wherein reason will not direct 
us what to say or do in company, if we are not misled by pride or 
ill-nature. 

Therefore I insist that good sense is the principal foundation of 
good manners; but because the former is a gift which very few 
among mankind are possessed of, therefore all the civilized nations 
of the world have agreed upon fixing some rules upon common be- 
havior best suited to their general customs or fancies, as a kind of 
artificial good sense, to supply the defects of reason. Without 
Avhich the gentlemanly part of dunces would be perpetually at cuffs, 
as they seldom fail when they happen to be drunk, or engaged in 
squabbles about women or play. And, God be thanked, there 
liarclJy happens a duel in a year, which may not be imputed to one 
ot tliese three motives. Upon which account, I should be exceed- 
ingly sorry to find the legislature make any new laws against the 
practice of duelling ; because the methods are easy and many for a 
wise man to avoid a quarrel with honor, or engage in it with inno- 

the'salt^rnl'vl* of much good sense, some good nature, and a little self-denial for 
Chesterfield ^^' ^""^^^^ ^^^^^ *« obtain the same indulgence from them." -Lord 



I jS The Pi'ose and Poetry of Ireland, 

cence. Aud I can discover no political evil in suffering bullies, 
sharpers, and rakes, to rid the world of each other by a method 
of their own, where the law has not been able to find an ex- 
pedient. 

As the common forms of good manners were intended for regu- 
lating the conduct of those who have weak understandings ; so they 
have been corrupted by the persons for whose use they were con- 
trived. For these people have fallen into a needless and endless 
way of multijDlying ceremonies, which have been extremely trouble- 
some to those who practise them, and insupportable to everybody 
else ; insomuch that wise men are often more uneasy at the over- 
civility of these refiners than they could possibly be in the conver- 
sation of peasants or mechanics. 

The impertinences of this ceremonial behavior are nowhere bet- 
ter seen than at those tables where the ladies preside, who value 
themselves upon account of their good breeding; where a man must 
reckon upon passing an hour without doing any one thing he has a 
mind to, unless he will be so hardy as to break through all the set- 
tled decorum of the family. She determines what he loves best, 
and how much he shall eat; and if the master of the house happens 
to be of the same disposition, he j)roceeds in the same tyrannical 
manner to prescribe in the drinking part: at the same time you are 
under the necessity of answering a thousand apologies for your en- 
tertainment. And although a good deal of this humor is pretty 
well worn off among many people of the best fashion, yet too much 
of it still remains, especially in the country, where an honest gen- 
tleman assured me, that having been kej^t four days against his will 
at a fiiend's house, with all the circumstances of hiding his boots, 
locking uj) the stable, and other contrivances of the like nature, he 
could not remember, from the moment he came into the house to 
the moment he left it, anv one thinof wherein his inclination was 
not directly contradicted, as if the whole family had entered into a 
combination to torment him. 

But, besides all this, it would be endless to recount the many 
foolish and ridiculous accidents I have observed among these unfor- 
tunate proselytes to ceremony. I have seen a duchess fairly knocked 
down, by the j^recipitancy of an officious coxcomb ranning to save 
her the trouble of opening a door. I remember, upon a birth-day 
at court, a great lady was rendered utterly disconsolate by a dish of 
sauce Ipt fall by a page directly upon her head-dress and brocade 



yonathan Swift, D.D. 1 79 

wliile she gave a sudden turn to her elbow upon some point of 
ceremony with the person who sat next to her. Monsieur Buys, 
the Dutch envoy, whose politics and manners were much of a size, 
brought a son with him, about thirteen years old, to a great table at 
court. The boy and his father, whatever they put on their plates, 
they first offered round in order to every person in company, so 
that we could not get a minute's quiet during the whole dinner. 
At last their two plates happened to encounter, and with so much 
violence, that, being china, they broke in twenty pieces, and stained 
lialf the company with sweetmeats and cream. 

There is a pendantry in manners, as in all arts and sciences, and 
sometimes in trades. Pedantry is properly the overrating of any 
kind of knowledge we pretend to. And if that kind of knowledge 
be a trifle in itself, the pedantry is the greater. For which reason 
I look upon fiddlers, dancing-masters, heralds, masters of the cere- 
mony, etc., to be greater pedants than Lipsius or the elder Scaliger. 
With this kind of pedants the court, while I knew it, was always 
plentifully stocked ; I mean from the gentleman usher (at least) in- 
clusive, downward to the gentleman porter, who are, generally 
speaking, the most insignificant race of people that this island can 
afford, and with the smallest tincture of good manners, which is the 
only trade they profess. For, being wholly illiterate, and conversing 
chiefly with each other, they reduce the whole system of breeding 
within the forms and circles of their several offices ; and, as they 
are below the notice of ministers, they live and die in court under 
all revolutions, with great obsequiousness to those who are in any 
degree of credit or favor, and with rudeness and insolence to every- 
body else. Whence I have long concluded that good manners are 
not a plant of the court growth ; for, if they were, those people who 
have understandings directly of a level for such acquirements, who 
have served such long apprenticeships to nothing else, would cer- 
tainly have picked them up. For, as to the great officers, who at- 
tend the prince's person or councils, or preside in his family, they 
are a transient body, who have no better a title to good manners 
than their neighbors, nor will probably have recourse to gentlemen 
ushers for instruction. So that I know little to be learned at court 
upon this head, except in the material circumstance of dress, 
wherein the authority of the maids of honor must indeed be allowed 
to be almost equal to that of a favorite actress. 

I remember a passage my Lord Bolingbroke told me — that going 



1 80 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

to receive Prince Eugene of Savoy at his landing, in order to con- 
duct liim immediately to the queen, the prince said he was much 
concerned that he could not see her majesty that night ; for Mon- 
sieur Hoffman (who was then by) had assured his highness that 
he could not be admitted into her presence with a tied-up jDcriwig ; 
that his equipage was not arrived ; and that ha had endeavored in 
vain to borrow a long one among all his valets and pages. My lord 
turned the matter into a jest, and brought the prince to her ma- 
jesty ; for which he was highly censured by the whole tribe of gen- 
tleman ushers, among whom Monsieur Hoffman, an old dull resident 
of the emperor's, had picked up this material point of ceremony, and 
which, I believe, was the best lesson h» had learned in five-and> 
twenty years' residence. 

I make a difference between good manners and good breeding, 
although, in order to vary my expression, I am sometimes forced to 
confound them. By the first I only understand the art of remem- 
bering and applying certain settled forms of general behavior. But 
good breeding is of a much larger extent ; for, besides an uncommon 
degree of literature, sufficient to qualify a gentleman for reading a 
play or a political pamphlet, it takes in a great compass of know- 
ledge, no less than that of dancing, fighting, gaming, making the- 
circle of Italy, riding the great horse, and speaking French, not to- 
mention some other secondary or subaltern accomplishments, which 
are more easily acquired. So that the difference between good 
breeding and good manners lies in this — that the former cannot bC' 
attained to by the best understandings without study and labor,, 
whereas a tolerable degree of reason will instruct us in every 2:)art 
of good manners without other assistance. 

I can think of nothing more useful upon this subject than to 
point out some particulars Avherein the very essentials of good man- 
ners are concerned, the neglect or perverting of which does very 
much disturb the good commerce of the world by introducing a. 
traffic of mutual uneasiness in most companies. 

First, a necessary part of good manners is a punctual observance 
of time at our own dwellings or those of others or at third places, 
whether upon matter of civility, business, or diversion, which rule, 
though it be a plain dictate of common reason, yet the greatest 
minister I ever knew was the greatest trespasser against it, by which 
all his business doubled upon him, and placed him in a continual 
arrear, upon which I often used to rally him as deficient in point 



Jonathan Swift, D.D. i8i 

of ffood manners. I have known more than one ambassador and 
secretary of state, with a very moderate portion of intellectnals, 
execute their ojffices with good snceess and applause by the mere 
force of exactness and regularity. If you duly observe time for the 
service of another, it doubles the obligation ; if upon your own ac- 
oount, it would be manifest folly as well as ingratitude to neglect 
it; if both are concerned, to make your equal or inferior attend on 
you to his own disadvantage is pride and injustice. 

Ignorance of forms cannot properly be styled ill manners, because 
forms are subject to frequent changes, and, consequently, being not 
founded upon reason, are beneath a wise man's regard. Besides, 
they vary in every country, and, after a short period of time, very 
frequently in the same ; so that a man who travels must needs be at 
first a stranger to them in every court through which he j^asses ; 
and, perhaps, at his return as much a stranger in his own, and, 
after all, they are easier to be remembered or forgotten than faces 
or names. 

Indeed, among the many impertinences that superficial young 
men bring with them from abroad, this bigotry of forms is one of 
the principal, and more predominant than the rest, who look upon 
them not only as if they were matters capable of admitting of choice, 
but even as points of importance, and are therefore zealous on all 
occasions to introduce and propogate the new forms and fashions 
they have brought back with them, so that, usually speaking, the 
worst bred person in company is a young traveller just returned 
from abroad. 



SOME OF SWIFT'S LETTERS. 
A LETTER TO THE EARL OF PEMBROKE. 

1709, at a conjecture. 
My Lord : It is now a good while since I resolved to take some 
occasions of congratulating with your lordship, and condoling Avith 
the public, upon your lordship's leaving the Admiralty; and I 
thought I could never choose a better time than when I am in the 
country with my lord bisHop of Clogher and his brother the doctor; 
for we pretend to a triumvirate of as humble servants and true ad- 
mirers of your lordship as any you have in both islands. You may 
call them a triumvirate / for, if you choose to try-um, they will vie 



1 82 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

with the bestj and are of the first rate, though they are not men of 
war, but men of the church. To say the truth, it was a pity your 
lordshij) should be confined to the Fleet, when you are not in debt. 
Though your lordsj^p is cast aiuay, you are not sunk ; nor ever 
will be, since nothing is out of your lordship's de])th. Dr. Ashe 
says, it is but justice that your lordship, who is a man of letters, 
should be placed upon the 2^ost-office ; and my lord bishop adds, 
that he hopes to see your lordship tossed from that post to be a 
pillar of state again ; which he desired I would put in by way of 
postscript, I am, my lord, etc. Jonathan" Swift. 



TO MR. SECRETARY ST. JOHis". 

January 7, 1711. 
Sir: Though I should not value such usage from a Secretary 
of State and a great minister, yet, when I consider the person it 
comes from, I can endure it no longer. I would have you know, 
sir, that if the queen gave you a dukedom and the garter to-morrow, 
with the treasury staff at the end of them, I would regard you no 
more than if you were not worth a groat. I could almost resolve, 
in spite, not to find fault with my victuals or to be quarrelsome to- 
morrow at your table; but if I do not take the first opportunity to 
let all the world know some qualities in you that you take most 
care to hide, may my right hand forget its cunning. After which 
threatening, believe me, if you please, to be with the greatest re- 
spect, sir, your most obedient, most obliged, and most humble, ser- 
vant, Joi^"ATHA]S" Swift. 



TO MB. GIRALDI. 

Dublin-, February 25, 1714-15. 
Sir: I take the liberty to recommend to you the bearer, Mr, 
Howard, a learned gentleman of good family in this country, who 
intends to make the tour of Italy, and being a canon in my deanery, 
and professor of a college in this University, would fain be confirmed 
in his heresy by travelling among Catholics. And after all, sir, it 
is but just that, since you have boiTOwed our English frankness and 
sincerity to engraft on your Italian jDoliteness, some of us tramon- 
tanes should make reprisals on you by travelling. You will also- 



Jonathan Swift, D,D, i83 

permit me to beg you will be so kind as to present my most humble 
duty to his royal highness the Grand Duke. 

With regard to myself, I will be so free as to tell you that two 
mouths before the queen's decease, finding that it was impossible 
to reconcile my friends of the ministry, I retired to a country-house 
in Berkshire ; from whence after the melancholy event I came over 
to Ireland, where I now reside upon my deanery, and with Chris- 
tian resignation wait for the destruction of our cause and of my 
friends, which the reigning faction are daily contriving. For these 
gentlemen are absolutely determined to strike off half a dozen heads 
of the best men in England, whom you intimately knew and 
esteemed. God knows what will be the consequence. For my part 
I have bid adieu to politics, and with the good leave of the honest 
men who are now in power, I shall spend the remainder of my days 
in my hermitage, and attend entirely to my own private affairs. 
Adieu, sir, and do me the justice to beheve that I am, with great 
respect, sir, yours, etc. Joif athax Swift. 



TO MISS VAKHOMRIGH. 

October 15, 1720. 
I SIT down with the first opportunity I have to write to you ; and 
the Lord knows when I can find conveniency to send this letter ; 
for all the morning I am plagued with impertinent visits, below 
any man of sense or honor to endure if it were any way avoidable. 
Dinners and afternoons and evenings are spent abroad in walking, 
to keep and avoid sj)leen as far as I can ; so that, when I am not so 
good a correspondent as I could wish, you are not to quarrel and be 
governor ; but to impute it to my situation, and to conclude infalli- 
bly that I have the same respect and kindness for you I ever pro- 
fessed to have, and shall ever preserve ; because you will always 
merit the utmost that can be given you, especially if you go on to 
read and still further improve your mind and the talents that nature 
has given you. I am in much concern for poor Mobkin ; and the 
more because I am sure you are so too. You ought to be as cheer- 
ful as you can, for both our sakes, and read pleasant things that will 
make you laugh, and not sit moping with your elbows on your knees 
on a little stool by the fire. It is most infallible that riding would 
do Mobkin more good than any other thing, provided fair days and 



184 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

warm clothes be provided ; and so ifc would to yon ; and if you lose 
any skin, you know Job says, "skin for skin will a man give for his 
life." It is either Job or Satan says so, for aught you know. I am 
getting an ill head in this cursed town, for want of exercise. I 
wish I were to walk with you fifty times about your garden, and then 
drink your coffee. I was sitting last night with half a score of both 
sexes for an hour, and grew as weary as a dog. Everybody grows 
silly and disagreeable, or I grow monkish and splenetic, which is 
the same thing. Conyersation is full of nothing but South Sea, 
and the ruin of the kingdom, and scarcity of money. 

JONATHAi^ SWIPT. 



TO MR. POPE.*^ 



Dublin, Noyember 17, 1726. 

I AM just come from answering a letter of Mrs. Howard's, writ 
in such mystical terms that I should never have found out the 
meaning if a book had not been sent me called ^^ Gulliver's Trav- 
els," of which you say so much in yours. I read the book over, 
and in the second volume observed several passages which ap]iear 
to be patched and altered, and the style of a different sort, unless 
I am mistaken. Dr. Arbuthnot likes the projectors least ; others, 
you tell me, the flying island ; some think it wrong to be so hard 
uj^on whole bodies or corporations, yet the general ojoinion is, that 
reflections on particular persons are most to be blamed ; so that in 
these cases I think the best method is to let censure and opinion 
take their course. A bishop here said that book was full of im- 
probable lies, and for his part he hardly believed a word of it ; and 
so much for Gulliver. 

Going to England is a very good thing, if it were not attended 
with an ugly circumstance of returning to Ireland. It is a shame 
you do not persuade your ministers to keep me on that side, if it 
were but by a court expedient of keeping me in prison for a plot- 
ter ; but at the same time I must tell you that such journeys very 
much shorten my life, for a month here is longer than six at Twick- 
enham. 

How comes friend Gay to be so tedious ? Another man can pub- 
lish fifty thousand lies sooner than he can publish fifty fables. 

•*6 The celebrated poet Pope was a Catholic, a native of England, and died in 1744. 



Jonatha7i Swift, D.D. 185 

I am jnst going to perform a very good office ; it is to assist with 
the archbishop in degrading a parson who couples all our beggars, 
by which I shall make one happy man, and decide the great ques- 
tion of an indelible character in favor of the principles in fashion. 
This I hope you will rejiresent to the ministry in my favor as a point 
of merit ; so farewell till I return. 

I am come back, and have deprived the parson, who, by a law 
here, is to be hanged the next couple he marries. He declared to us 
that he resolved to be hanged — only desired that when he was to go 
to the gallows the archbishop would take off his excommunication. 
Is not he a good Catholic ? and yet he is but a Scotchman. This is 
the only Irish event I ever troubled you with, and I think it deserves 
notice. Let me add that if I were Gulliver's friend I would desire 
all my acquaintance to give out that his copy was basely mangled, 
and abused, and added to, and blotted out, by the printer, for so 
to me it seems, in the second volume particularly. Adieu. 

JoifATHAJ^" Swift. 



TO THE ABBE DES FOK'TAIi^ES. 

August, 1727. 
Sir : It is above a month since I received your letter of the 4th 
of July, but the copy of the second edition of your translation is 
not yet come to hand. I have read the preface to the first, and 
give me leave to tell you that I was very much surprised to find 
that at the same time you mentioned the country in which I was 
born, you also took notice of me by name as the author of that 
book, though I have had the misfortune of incurring the displea- 
sure of some of our ministers by it, and never acknowledged it as 
mine. Your behavior, however, in this respect, though somewhat 
exceptionable, shall not prevent me from doing you justice. The 
generality of translators are very lavish of their praises on such 
works as they undertake to render into their own language, imagin- 
ing, perhaps, that their reputation depends in some measure on that 
of the authors whom they have thought proper to translate. But 
you were sensible of your own abilities, which rendered all such 
precautions needless. Capable of mending a bad book — an enter- 
prise more difficult than to write a good one — ^you have ventured to 



1 86 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

publish the trarislation of a work which you affirm to abound with 
nonsense, puerihties, etc. We think with you that nations do not 
always agree in taste, but are inclined to believe that good taste is 
the same wherever there are men of wit, judgment, and learning. 
Therefore, if the " Travels of Gulliver " are calculated only for the 
British islands, that voyager must certainly be reckoned a paltry 
writer. The same vices and folly j^revail in all countries, at least 
in all the civilized jmrts of Europe ; and an author who would sit 
down to write only for a single town, a province, a kingdom, or 
even a century, so far from deserving to be translated, does not de- 
serve to be read. 

This G-uUiver's adherents, who are very numerous here, maintain 
that his book will last as long as our language, because he does not 
derive his merit from certain modes of expression or thought, but 
from a series of observations on the imj)erfections, follies, and vices 
of mankind. 

You may very well judge that the people I have been speaking 
of do not approve of your criticisms ; and you will doubtless be 
surprised when I inform you that they regard this sea-surgeon as a 
grave author who never departs from his character, and who uses 
no foreign embellishment — never pretends to set up for a wit — but 
is satisfied with giving the public a plain and simple narrative of 
the adventures that befell him, and of the things he saw and heard 
in the course of his voyages. 

With regard to the article relating to Lord Carteret, without 
waiting for any information whence you borrowed your intelligence, 
I shall take the liberty to tell you that you have written only one- 
half of the truth ; and that this real or supposed Drapier has saved 
Ireland, by spiriting up the whole nation to oppose a project by 
which a certain number of individuals would have been enriched 
at the public expense. 

A series of accidents have intervened which will prevent my 
going to France at joresent, and I am now too old to hope for any 
future opportunity. I am sensible that this is a great loss to me. 
The only consolation that remains is to think that I shall be the 
better able to bear that spot of ground to which fortune has con- 
demned me, etc. Jonathan Swift. 



Jonathan Swift, D.D, 187 

TO MK. GAY." 

Dublin, November 27, 1727. 

I Ei^'TiKELY approve your refusal of that employment and your 
writing to the queen. I am j)erfectly confident you have a keen 
enemy in the ministry."' God forgive him, but not till he puts 
himself in a state to be forgiven. Upon reasoning with myself, I 
should hope they are gone too far to discard you quite, and that they 
will give you something which, although much less than they 
ought, will be (as far as it is worth) better circumstantiated ; and 
since you already just live, a middling help will make you just 
tolerable. Your lateness in life (as you so soon call it) might be 
improper to begin the world with, but almost the eldest men may 
hope to see changes in a court. A minister is always seventy ; you 
are thirty years younger ; and consider, Cromwell himself did not 
begin to appear till he was older than you. I beg you will be 
thrifty and learn to value a shilling, which Dr. Birch said was a 
serious thing. Get a stronger fence about your £1,000 and throw 
the inner fence into the heap, and be advised by your Twickenham 
landlord and me about an annuity. You are the most refractory, 
honest, good-natured man I have ever known ; I could argue out 
this paper. I am very glad your " Opera " is finished, and hope your 
friends will join the readier to make it succeed, because you are 
ill used by others. 

I have known courts these thirty-six years, and know they differ ; 
but in some things they are extremely constant : first, in the trite 
old maxim of a minister's never forgiving those he has injured ; 
secondly, in the insincerity of those who would be thought the best 
friends ; thirdly, in the love of fawning, cringing, and tale-bearing ; 
fourthly, in sacrificing those whom we really wish w^ell to a point 
of interest or intrigue ; fifthly, in keeping everything worth taking 
for those who can do no service or disservice. 

I bought your ^^ Opera" to-day for sixpence, a cursed print. I find 
there is neither dedication nor preface, both which wants I approve ; 
it is in the grand gout. 

^ e are as full of it, ]iro modulo nostro, as London can be ; con- 
tinually acting, houses crammed, and the Lord-Lieutenant several 
times laughing there his heart out. I did not understand that the 

*'' An English po8t of some note who died 1732. 
*^ Sir Robert Walpole. 



1 88 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

scene of Locket and Pexcliuins quarrel was an imitation of one be- 
tween Brutus and Cassias till I was told it. I wish MacheatJi^ 
when he was going to be hanged, had imitated Alexander the Great 
when he was dying ; I would have had his fellow-rogues desire his 
commands about a successor, and he to answer. Let it be the most 
worthy, etc. We hear a million of stories about the opera, of the 
applause of the song, '' That was levelled at me," when two great 
ministers were in a box together and all the world staring at them. 
I am heartily glad your opera hath mended your purse, though per- 
haps it may spoil your court. 

I will excuse Sir the trouble of a letter. When ambassadors 

came from Troy to condole with Tiberius upon the death of his 
nephew after two years, the emperor answered that he likewise 
condoled with them for the untimely death of Hector. I always 
loved and respected him very much, and do still as much as ever, 
and it is a return sufficient if he pleases to accept the offers of my 
most humble service. 

. The '^ Beggars' Opera " hath knocked down. '' Gulliver." I hope 
to see Pope's '^•' Dulness" knock down the ^^ Beggars' Opera," but 
not till it hath fully done its job. 

To expose vice and make people laugh with innocence does more 
public service than all the ministers of state from Adam to Wal- 
pole, and so adieu. Joi^^ATHAN" Swifts 



TO MR. WOERALL. 

Market Hill, January 4, 1729. 

I HAD your long letter, and thank you heartily for your concern 
about my health. I continue very deaf and giddy; but, however, 
I would certainly come to town, not only for my visitation, but be- 
cause in these circumstances, and in winter, I would rather be at 
home. But it is now Saturday night, and that beast Sheridan is 
not yet come, although it has been thawing since Monday. If I do 
not come, you know what to do. 

My humble service to our friends, as usual. 

JoxATHAisr Swift. 



Jonatha7i Swift, DJ), 189 



TO MR. POPE. 

May 12, 1735. 

Your letter was sent me yesterday by Mr. Stopford," who landed 
the same day, but I have not yet seen him. As to my silence, God 
knows it is my great misfortune. My little domestic affairs are in 
great confusion by the villany of agents and the miseries of this 
kinirdom, where there is no money to be had ; nor am I unconcerned 
to see all things tending towards absolute power in both nations (it 
is here in perfection already), although I shall not live to see it 
established. This condition of things, both public and personal to 
myself, has given me such a kind of despondency that I am almost 
unqualified for any company, diversion, or amusement. The death 
of Mr. Gay and the doctor have been terrible wounds near my heart. 
Their living would have been a gi-eat comfort to me, although I 
should never have seen them — like a sum of money in the bank, 
from which I should receive at least annual interest, as I do from 
you and have done from my Lord Bolingbroke. To show in how 
much ignorance I live, it is hardly a fortnight since I heard of the 
death of my Lady Masham, my constant friend in all changes of 
times. God forbid that I should expect you to make a voyage that 
would in the least affect your health ; but in the meantime how un- 
happy am I that my best friend should have perhaps the only kind 
of disorder for which a sea-voyage is not in some degree a remedy ! 
The old Duke of Ormond said he would not change his dead son 
(Ossory) for the best living son in Europe. Neither would I 
change you, my absent friend, for the best present friend round the 
globe. 

I have lately read a book imputed to Lord Bolingbroke, called 
'^A Dissertation upon Parties." I think it very masterly 
written. 

May God reward you for your kind prayers. I believe your 
prayers will do me more good than those of all the prelates in both 
kingdoms, or any prelates in Europe, except the Bishop of Mar- 
seilles. And God preserve you for contributing more to mend the 
world than the whole pack of (modern) parsons in a lump. I am 
ever entirely yours, Jonathan Swift. 

*® Afterwards Bishop of Cloyne. 



190 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 



TO DR. SHEEIDAInT. 



September 12, 1735. 
Here is a very ingenious observation upon the days of the week, 
and in rhyme, worth your observation, and very proper for the in- 
formation of boys and girls, that they may not forget to reckon 
them : Sunday's a pun day, Monday's a dun day, Tuesday's a news 
day, Wednesday's a friend's day, Thursday's a cursed day, Friday's 
a dry day, Saturday's the latter day. I intend somethmg of equal 
use upon the months : as, January, women vary. I shall likewise in 
due time make some observation upon each year as it passes. So 
for the present year : 

One thousand seven hundred and thirty-five, 
When only the d^ and b ps will thrive. 

And for the next : 



Perge : 



One thousand seven hundred and thirty-six, 
When the d will carry the b ps to Styx. 



One thousand seven hundred and thirty-seven. 

When the Whigs are so bhnd they mistake hell for heaVn. 



I will carry these predictions no further than to year 2001, when 

the learned think the world will be at an end, or the fine-all cat-a- 

strow-fee. 

The last is the period, two thousand and one. 
When m — and b — to hell are all gone. 

When that time comes, pray remember the discovery came from 
me. 

It is now time I should begin my letter. I hope you got safe to 
Cavan, and have got no cold in those two terrible days. All your 
friends are well, aud I as I used to be. I received yours. My 
humble service to your lady and love to your children. I suppose 
you have all the news sent to you. I hear of no marriages going 
on. One Dean Cross, an eminent divine, we hear is to be Bishop 
of Cork. Stay till I ask a servant what Patrick's bells ring for so 
late at night. You fellow, is it for joy or sorrow ? I believe it 

50 The grandfather of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, a great wit, and friend of Swift. He 
■was a native of Ireland, and died 17S8. 



Jonathan Swift ^ D,D, 191 

some of our royal birthdays. Oh! they tell me it is for joy a new 
master is chosen for the corporation of butchers. So farewell. 

JoifATHA^f Swift. 



CEKTIFICATE TO A DISCAEDED SERVAlSrT. 

Deanery-House, January 9, 1740. 
Whereas the bearer served me the space of one year, during 
which time he was an idler and a drunkard ; I then discharged him 
as such ; but how far his having been five years at sea may have 
mended his manners, I leave to the penetration of those who may 
hereafter choose to employ him. 

JoNATHAi^ Swift. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



" He left scarcely any style of writing untouched, and touched nothing that 
he did not adorn." — Dr. Johnson. 

ONE of th-e dearest and brightest names in English literature 
is Oliyer Goldsmith. His life was, indeed, a strange melo- 
drama, so varied with laughter and tears, so checkered with fame 
and misfortune, so resounding with songs, pathetic and comic, that 
were he an unknown hero his adventures would be read with plea- 
sure by every person of sensibility. 

Oliver Goldsmith, son of the Eev. Charles Goldsmith, a minister 
of the Established Church, was born at the little, out-of-the-way 
village of Pallas, or Pallasmore, county of Longford, in 1728. He 
was the fifth of nine children, and at his birth his father was — 

" Passing rich on forty pounds a year." 

While the child was yet in his second year, the Eev. Mr. Goldsmith 
removed to the delightful village of Lissoy, county of Westmeath^ 
afterwards made immortal by Goldsmith as — 

'• Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain, 
Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring swain." 

Here the good minister held a comfortable living, and occuj)ied a 
fine house. Oliver, in due time, was sent to the village school. We 
are told that he was '^ an exceedingly dull boy." However, he was 
a poet, for at eight years of age he showed a turn for rhyming. His 
first master was Mr. Thomas Byrne, a brave, kind-hearted old sol- 
dier who had faced cannon under Marlborough. He pitied the shy 
and unattractive Oliver, and let the lad have a good deal of his own 
way. Mr. Byrne is, no doubt, the wonderful pedagogue pictured 
in the '^ Deserted Village " as the person who astonished the rustics 
with his erudition and his " words of learned length and thunder- 
insf sound." 

While a mere boy, a severe attack of small-pox had left deep pits 
in poor Oliver's face. His mischievous companions called him ugly ; 

he became the butt of coarse fun ; but he did not always listen in 

192 



Oliver Goldsmith. 



19^ 



silence to the boorish jibes. ^^ Why, Noll," said a relative, staring 
at the boy's face, ^'' you are become a fright ! When do you mear 
to get handsome again ? " '^ When you do," replied Oliver with s 
quiet grin. 

After a fair training in various schools at Elphin, Athlone, anc 
Edgeworthtown, young Goldsmith, in his sixteenth year, was seni 
to Trinity College, Dublin. He Avas so unfortunate as to have fo] 
tutor. Rev. Mr. Wilder, a harsh and brutal man. Oliver's fiv( 
years of university life in the cajoital of Ireland were unhapj)] 
years. His father died, and but for the generosity of a kinc 
uncle ^ he would have starved. At this time we meet his firsi 
literary performance. He wrote street ballads for five shillings 
apiece, and at night he would quietly slip into the dimly-lightec 
streets to see them sold and to hear them sung. Here also we firsi 
behold that boundless benevolence which could never learn discre^ 
tion. Scarcely was his hard-earned and much-needed ballad monej 
in his hand when it was shared with the first beggar he met. Poo] 
Oliver's few shillings often melted away in the heat of charity be- 
fore he could reach the college entrance ! Hated and discouragec 
by the brutal Wilder, he grew idle, and took a share in all the colleg( 
scrapes. He even had a hand in ducking a bailiff under the college 
pump. On one occasion he made thirty shillings, and, of course, 
he could not avoid celebrating the event by a dance in his room, 
In the midst of the festive scene the evil genius, Wilder, appeared, 
knocked Goldsmith down with a blow, and threw the dancers necl 
and heels out of the window.'^ In 1749 he took, with difficulty, 
the degree of Bachelor of Arts, and bade a final adieu to his seven 
Alma Mater. 

The graduate of old Trinity now directed his steps to hij 
mother's cottage at Ballymahon, near Edgeworthtown, where sh( 
lived in reduced circumstances. Here Oliver sjDent two years trying 
to qualify for orders in the Episcopal Church. He could tell i 
story, sing a song, or play a game with any one. Occasionally h( 
could also be found learning French from some Catholic priest 
fishing on the banks of the Inny, playing his flute, and winning i 
prize at the fair of Ballymahon for throwing the sledge-hammer. 

We have not space to give a minute account of Oliver's attempts tc 
be a tutor, a clergyman, a lawyer, and a physician. When he pre- 

1 Rev. Mr. Contarine, 

2 Irving, " Life of Goldsmith." 



Q^^ 



194 ^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

sen ted liimself for orders, the Protestant bisliop rejected him.^ He 
turned tutor, but in a game of chance quarrelled with one of his pa- 
tron's family, left his place with $150 in his pocket, and wended his 
way to Cork, intending to go to America. In six weeks he returned 
to his mother without a j^enny, but had with him an old horse, 
which he humorously named ^^Fiddlestick." 

Oliver next turned his thoughts to law. His good Uncle Con- 
tarine again came to his aid, and, with $250 in his pocket, Oliver 
Goldsmith, B.A., set out for London. He had barely reached 
Dublin when, in a game with a sharper, he lost all his money. 
Again he was penniless. He was now advised to study medicine, 
and his friends once more came to his assistance. He went to Edin- 
burgh, and for nearly two years attended the medical lectures in 
the university of that city. But his standing, we are told, was 
higher in social circles than in the halls of science. He was a good 
story-teller, and he could sing a capital Irish song. 

From Edinburgh he next went to Leyden, on the Continent, to 
complete his medical education. After a year spent at this jjlace, 
he got into some difficulty, and hastily left the university without 
taking any degree. He now began the grand tour of Europe, with 
'^ a guinea in his pocket, a shirt on his back, and a flute in his 
hand." This journey Goldsmith lias immortalized in his *' Travel- 
ler." On foot he made his way through Belgium, France, Switzer- 
land, and Italy ; and it is generally believed that he took his medi- 
cal degree either at Louvain or Padua. While in Italy he heard of 
his generous Uncle Contarine's death. Oliver was obliged to foot 
it towards home, and was hapjiy in finding lodging and a meal in 
some wayside monastery. 

In the extremity of distress he reached London in 1756, and en- 
gaged awhile in teaching, under an assumed name. He next turned 
to practise medicine, but his patients outnumbered his fees. He 
finally took up his pen, and began that struggle in the troubled 
waters of London life which closed only when the struggler lay 
coffined in Brick Court. 

He began by writing essays and criticisms for the reviews and 
magazines. In 1759, Goldsmitlrs first work, *'An Enquiry into the 
Present State of Polite Learning in Europe," was given to the public. 
The next year he wrote for a popular periodical a series of letters 
assuming to come from a Chinese philosopher living in London, and 

* Because, it is said, he wore a *' pair of acarlet breeches *' on the occasiozL 



Oliver Goldsmith, 195 

giving his countrymen an account of what he was seeing there. 
The " Vicar of Wakefield "' was finished in 1764, though not pub- 
lished for nearly two years after. We are indebted to Dr. Johnson 
for the story of how the manuscript was sold. ^^I received one 
morning/'' says the doctor, ^'a message from poor Goldsmith that 
he was in gi-eat distress, and, as it was not in his power to come to 
me, begged that I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent 
him a guinea and promised to come to him directly. I accordingly 
went as soon as I was dressed, and found that his landlady had ar- 
rested him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion. I per- 
ceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had got a bottle 
of Madeira and a glass before him. I put the cork into the bottle, 
desired him to be calm, and began to talk to him of the means 
whereby he might be extricated. He then told me he had a novel 
ready for the press, which he j^roduced to me. I looked into it and 
saw its merit, told the landlady I should soon return, and having 
gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith 
the money, and he discharged his rent, not without rating his land- 
lady in a high tone for having used him so ill." * 

In 1764, Goldsmith published '' The Traveller." During the 
next ten years his gifted pen gave the comedies of ^' The Good- 
matured Man" and '^'^She Stoops to Conquer," the beautiful 
poem of " The Deserted Village," in which the good, simple peo- 
ple, the sights and scenes of Lissoy, in Ireland, are immortalized, 
and a number of historical and other works, for some of which he 
was paid large sums of money. The last flash of his genius was 
the short poem, ^^Eetaliation," wi'itten in reply to some jibing 
epitaphs which were composed on him by the company met one 
day at dinner in the St. James's Coffee-House. The actor Garrick's 
couplet ran thus : * 

" Here lies Poet Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll, 
Who wrote like an angel, but talked like poor Poll." 

Garrick, even to-day, suffers for his unkindness, as can be seen 
by reading the ^' Retaliation." 

Death, alas ! was now silently approaching Goldsmith, and the 
light of his genius was soon to go out. Low fever set in. He 
took powders contrary to the advice of his physicians, and after 

* Boswell's •' Life of Johnson." 



n 



/■^ 



196 The Prose and Poctiy of Ireland. 



I 



I 



nine days' sickness the author of '*' Sweet Auburn " was no more. 
He died on the -ith of April, 17T4, in his forty- sixth year. His 
last moments were peculiarly sad, as he died deeply in debt. Dr. 
Johnson tells us that he owed fully $10,000, and exclaims : ''Was 
ever poet so trusted before I " On hearing of Goldsmith's death, 
Edmund Burke burst into tears. A monument was raised to him 
in T^'estminster Abbey, and good old Doctor Johnson wrote the 
epitaj^h in Latin, of which the following is a ti*anslation : 

"OLIVER G0LDS3IITH, 

POET, XATT TRAT.TS T, AXD HISTOEIAIf, 

Who left scarcely any style of writing untouched, and touched nothing 

that he did not adorn ; of all the passions, whether smiles or tears 
were to be mored, a powerful yet gentle master ; in genius sub- 
lime, rivid, versatile; in style elevated, clear, elegant . . . 
The love of companions, the fidelity of friends, and 
the veneration of readers have by this monument 
honored the Memory. He was born in Ireland, 
at a place called Pallas, In the parish of 
Forney, and county of Longford, on 
the 29th of Xov., 1728, educated 
at the University of Dublin, 
and died at London, 
4th April, 1774." 

As an author. Goldsmith holds the first place in both poetry and 
prose. His original ^productions are cla'ssics. But of all his poetic 
gems, the finest, most polished, and most precious is •* The Deserted 
YiUage." For tender pathos, simp)le, charming, lifelike descrip- 
tions, exqtiisite harmony, and matchless beauty of expression, it is 
a poem, perhaps, unequalled in the whole range of literature. It 
will last as lono- as the Ens^lish lansfuasfe. 

His good-natured wit and healthy humor shine through his come- 
dies, essays, -'''Vicar of Wakefield," and especially his lines ou 
'Oladame Blaze." 

To Goldsmith belongs the great merit of purifying the novel, of 
raising it above the sensual and the obscene. The beautiful story 
of '-'The Yicar of Wakefield" stands alone in English lettei-s, 
the matchless story of his own matchless pen. Its perusal gave 
the great German poet, Goethe, his first taste for English liter- 
ature. 



Oliver Goldsmith, 197 

As a gay and graceful essayist, the author of '^ Sweet Auburn" 
excelled either Steele or Addison. 

^^In person," writes one who knew Goldsmith well, ^^he was 
short ; about five feet five or six inches ; strong, but not heavy la 
make ; rather fair in complexion, with brown hair. His manners 
were simple, natural, and, perhaps, on the whole, we may say pol- 
ished. He was always cheerful and animated, often, indeed, bois- 
terous in his mirth." ^ 

Goldsmith's faults, like the faults of other men, are neither to 
be denied nor excused. But we should not dwell upon them. He 
was a man whose character should be determined not so much by 
his defects as by his excellences. Of his charity instances without 
number could be given, as where he took the blankets from his own 
bed to cover a poor woman and her children. 

The truth of Buffon's famous saying, " The style is the man," was 
never seen in a clearer light than in the case of Goldsmith. His 
bright mind, joyous spirits, and kind heart shine through all his writ- 
ings. These exhibit his better self. Johnson is said to have remarked 
that no man was wiser than Goldsmith when he had a pen in his 
hand, or more foolish when he had not. We should remember that 
it was Goldsmith's misfortune rather than his fault that his whole 
life was a struggle with adversity and his own poorly-balanced cha- 
racter. Yet neither poverty nor distress could ever curdle the milk 
of human kindness in his good heart. And when we come to con- 
sider that some of his masterpieces were composed in a miserable 
garret, with indigence staring him on every side, we are really 
forced to bow to the shining splendor of his genius. 



GOLDSIHITH'S POEMS. 

THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain. 

Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring swain, 

Where smiling sjoring its earliest visit paid. 

And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd ; 

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease. 

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 

5 Judge Day. 



198 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green. 

Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! 

How often have I paus'd on every charm — 

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm. 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 

The decent church that topp'd the neighb'ring hill. 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade. 

For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made ! 

How often have I bless'd the coming day. 

When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play. 

And all the village train, from labor free. 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; 

While many a pastime circled in the shade. 

The young contending as the old surveyed ; 

And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground. 

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round \ 

And still as each repeated pleasure tir'd. 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band ins^^ir'd ; 

The dancing pair that simply sought renown 

By holding out, to tire each other down ; 

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 

While secret laughter titter'd round the place ; 

The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love. 

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. 

These were thy charm.s, sweet village ! sports like these. 

With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed. 

These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled ! 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn. 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen. 
And desolation saddens all thy green. 
One only master grasps the whole domain. 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
But, chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies. 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 



Oliver Goldsmith, 199 

Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall, 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand. 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hast'ning ills a prey. 
Where wealth accumulates and men decay. 
Princes and lords may flourish or may fade, 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began. 
When every rood of ground maintained its man. 
For him light labor spread her wholesome store. 
Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more ; 
His best companions innocence and health. 
And his best riches ignorance of wealth. 

But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose 
Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous pomp repose. 
And every want to luxury allied. 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom. 
Those calm, desires that ask'd but little room. 
Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene,, 
Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green — 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour. 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds 
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds. 
And, many a year elaps'd, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew. 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care. 
In all my griefs — and God has giv'n my share — 
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown. 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down 1 



200 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

To linsbaud out life's taper at the close. 
And keep the flame from wasting bv repose ; 
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill, 
Ai'ound my fire an eyening group to draw. 
And tell of all I felt and all I saw ; 
And as a hare whom hounds and horse pursue 
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past. 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 

blest retirement I friend to life's decline. 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine. 
How blest is he who crowns in shades like these 
A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try. 
And since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly I 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine or tempt the dang'rous deep, 
!Nor surly j'Jorter stands in guilty state. 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
Ansrels around befriendins^ virtue's friend : 
Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay. 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last. 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 

Sweet was the sound when oft, at ev'ning's close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 
There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow. 
The mingling notes came soften'd from below ; 
The swain responsive as the milk- maid sung. 
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young. 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. 
The playful children just let loose from school, 
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'riug wind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind — 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail, 
Xo cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the sfale. 



Oliver Goldsmith. 20i 

No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread ; 

But all the bloomy flush of life is fled — 

All but yon widow'd, solitary thing 

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring. 

She, wretch'd matron, forc'd in age, for bread, 

To strip the brook with mantling cresses s^^read ; 

To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn. 

To seek her nightly shed, and w^eep till morn ; 

She only left of all the harmless train. 

The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, 
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild — 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear, 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place. 
Unskilful he to fawn or seek for power. 
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; 
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train, 
He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain ; 
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest. 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast. 
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sate by his fire and talk'd the night away. 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow. 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt at every call. 
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all ; 



202 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

And as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies. 
He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, 
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed. 
The rev'rend cham^^ion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul. 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise. 
And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd j^raise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway. 
And fools who came to scoff remain'd to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man. 
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
E'en children folio w'd with endearing wile. 
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd ; 
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distressed ; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given. 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven ; . 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way 
With blossom'd furze unprofitable gay. 
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule. 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view, 
I knew him well, and every truant knew ; 
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
Eull well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
Full well the busy whisj^er, circling round, 
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd. 
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, 
The love he bore to learning was in fault ; 



Oliver Goldsmith. 203 

The village all declar'd how much he knew — 
'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and .tides presage. 
And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. 
In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill, 
For e'en though vanquish'd he could argue still ; 
While words of learned length and thund'ring sound 
Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around. 
And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 

But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumph'd is forgot, 
Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on high. 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye. 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd, 
Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd. 
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound. 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendors of that festive jolace ; 
The whitewashed wall, the nicely-sanded floor, 
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; 
The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
The pictures plac'd for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, 
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay, 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 

Yain transitory splendors ! could not all 
Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall ? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair. 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear. 
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear ; 



204 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; 
Nor the coy maid, half- willing to be prest. 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. 
These simple blessings of the lowly train. 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm than all the gloss of art ; 
Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvy'd, unmolested, unconfined. 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array' d, 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain. 
And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy. 
The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
The rich man's joy increase, the poor's decay, 
'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound. 
And rich men flock from all the world around. 
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss. This man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supply'd ; 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds. 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds ; 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their growth ; 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
Around the world each needful jiroduct flies, 
For all the luxuries the world suj^plies. 
"While thus the land adorn'd, for pleasure, all 
In barren splendor feebly waits the fall. 



Oliver Goldsmith. 205 

As some fair female, nnadorn'd and plain. 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes : 
But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, 
"When time advances and when lovers fail. 
She then shines forth, solicitons to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
Thus fares the land by luxury betray'd — 
In nature's simplest charms at first array'd, 
But verging to decline, its splendors rise, 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise. 
While, scourged by famine from the smiling land. 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band. 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 
The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 

Where, then, ah I where shall poverty reside. 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide. 
And e'en the bare-worn common is deny'd. 

If to the city sped — what waits him there ? 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury and thin mankind ; 
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade. 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display. 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign. 
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train ; 
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square. 
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
Sure scenes like these no troubles ere annoy ! 
Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah I turn thine eyes 
Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies. 



2o6 The Pilose and Poetry of Ireland. 

She once, perhaps, in Tillage plenty blest, 

Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn, 

Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue fled, 

E'ear her betrayer's door she lays her head. 

And, pinched with cold and shrinking from the shower, 

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour 

When idly first, ambitious of the town. 

She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sw^et Auburn, thine, tlie loveliest train — 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 

Ah ! no. To distant climes, a dreary scene. 
Where half the convex world intrudes between. 
Through torrid tracks with fainting steps they go. 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
Far different there from all that charmed before, 
• The various terrors of that horrid shore — 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing. 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
Those pois'nous fields, with rank luxuriance crown'd. 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
And savage men more murd'rous still than they ; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 
Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. 
Far different these from every former scene — 
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove 
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. 
Good heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day 
That called them from their native walks away ; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past. 
Hung round the bowers and fondly look'd their last. 



Oliver Goldsm ith. 207 

And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
And, shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, 
Eetiirn'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. 
The good old sire, the first prepar'd to go 
To new-found worlds, and wej)t for others' woe ; 
But for himself, in conscious yirtue brave. 
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
The fond companion of his helpless years. 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. 
And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. 
And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose. 
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear. 
And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear; 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 

luxury ! thou curst by heaven's decree. 
How ill-exchang'd are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious jo}-. 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee to sickly greatness grown 
Boast of a florid vigor not their own. 
At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe. 
Till, sapp'd their strength and every part unsound, 
Down, down they sink and spread a ruin round 

E'en now the devastation is begun. 
And half the business of destruction done. 
E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail. 
That, idly waiting, flaps with every gale. 
Downward they move, a melancholy band. 
Pass from the shore and darken all the strand. 
Contented toil and hospitable care 
And kind connubial tenderness are there. 
And piety, with wishes plac'd above. 
And steady loyalty and faithful love. 



2o8 The P7^ose and Poehy of Ireland, 

And tliou, sweet Poetry, tliou loveliest maid, 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade, 
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame 
To catch the heart or strike for honest fame ; 
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry'd. 
My shame in crowds, my solitary j^ride, 
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, 
That f ound'st me poor at first and keep'st me so ; 
Thou guide by which the noble arts excel. 
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well. 
Parewell, and ! where'er thy voice be try'd. 
On Torno's cliifs or Pambamarca's side. 
Whether where equinoctial fervors glow 
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow. 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
Eedress the rigors of th' inclement clime ; 
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him that states of native strength possest. 
Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away. 
While self-dependent power can time defy. 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 



THE TEAVELLEE ; OE, A PEOSPECT OF SOCIETY. 

Eemote, unfriended, melancholy, slow. 
Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po ; 
Or onward, where the rude Oarinthian boor 
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door ; 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies 
A weary waste expanding to the skies ; 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see. 
My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee — 
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless j^ain. 
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend. 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ; 



Oliver Goldsmith. 209 

Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 

To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire ; 

Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 

And every stranger finds a ready chair ; 

Blest be those feasts, with simple plenty crown'd, 

Where all the ruddy family around 

Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail. 

Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale, 

Or press the bashful stranger to his food. 

And learn the luxury of doing good. 

But me, not destined such delights to share, 
My prime of life in wandering spent and care ; 
Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue 
Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view, 
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies. 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; 
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
And find no spot of all the world my own. 

E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend. 
And, placed on high above the storm's career. 
Look downward where an hundred realms appear, 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide. 
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 

When thus creation's charms around combine, 
Amidst the store should thankless pride repine ? 
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ? 
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can. 
These little things are great to little man ; 
And wiser he whose sympathetic mind 
Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendor crown'd. 
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round, 
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale. 
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale. 
For me your tributary stores combine ; 
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine. 

As some lone miser, visiting his store. 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er, 



2IO The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 

Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still ; 

Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 

Pleas'd with each good that Heaven to man supplies; 

Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall. 

To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 

And oft I ^dsh, amidst the scene, to find 

Some s23ot to real happiness consigned, 

Where my worn soul, each Avandering hope at rest, 

May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 

But where to find that happiest spot below 
Who can direct, w^hen all pretend to know ? 
The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own, 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas. 
And his long nights of revelry and ease ; 
The naked negro panting at the line 
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine. 
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, 
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
Such is the patriot's boast, w^here'er w^e roam. 
His first, best country ever is at home. 
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare. 
And estimate the blessings which they share, 
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 
As different good, by art or nature given. 
To different nations makes their blessings even. 

Nature, a mother kind alike to all. 
Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call; 
With food as well the peasant is supplied 
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; 
And though the rocky-crested summits frown. 
These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. 
From art more various are the blessings sent, 
Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content. 
Yet these each other's power so strong contest 
That either seems destructive of the rest. 
Where wealth and freedom reign contentment fails, 
And honor sinks where commerce long prevails. 



Oliver Goldsmith. 

Hence every state, to one lov'd blessing prone. 
Conforms and models liie to that alone. 
Each to the fav'rite happiness attends. 
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends, 
'Till, carried to excess in each domain. 
This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain. 

But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
And trace them through the prospect as it lies ; 
Here for a while, my proper cares resign'd — 
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind, 
Like yon neglected shrub at random cast. 
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. 

Far to the right where Apennine ascends, 
Bright as the summer, Italy extends. 
Its uplands sloping deck the mountains' side, 
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride. 
While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between 
With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 

Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast. 
The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
Whatever fruits in different climes were found. 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts apjDcar, 
Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die — 
These here disporting own the kindred soil. 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
While sea-born gales their gelid wings ex]3and 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows. 
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 
In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign ; 
Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain ; 
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue. 
And e'en in penance planning sins anew. 
All evils here contaminate the mind 
That opulence departed leaves behind ; 



211 



212 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

For wealth was theirs, not far removed the date 
When commerce proudly flourished through the state ; 
At her command the palace learnt to rise. 
Again the long-fall' n column sought the skies ; 
The canvas glow'd beyond e'en nature warm. 
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form. 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale. 
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail ; 
While nought remain'd of all that riches gave 
But towns unmann'd and lords without a slave. 
And late the nation found with fruitless skill 
Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 

Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of foi'mer pride ; 
From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind 
An easy compensation seem to find. 
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd. 
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; 
Processions form'd for piety and love, 
A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd. 
The sports of children satisfy the child ; 
Each nobler aim, repressed by long control, 
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 
While low delights, succeeding fast behind. 
In happier meanness occupy the mind ; 
As in those domes where Caesars once bore sway, 
Defaced by time and tottering in decay, 
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead. 
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; 
And, wondering man could want the larger pile, 
Exults and owns his cottage with a smile. 

My soul turn from them, turn we to survey 
Where rougher climes a nobler race display. 
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread. 
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread ; 
IsTo product here the barren hills afford 
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. 
'^o vernal blooms their torpid rocks array. 
But winter, lingering, chills the lap of May ; 



Oliver Goldsmith. 213 

No zepliyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 

But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 

Yet still, e'en here, content can spread a charm, 

Eedress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 

Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts tho' small, 

He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 

Sees no contiguous palace rear its head 

To shame the meanness of his humble shed, 

No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal 

To make him loath his yegetable meal ; 

But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil. 

Each wish contracting fits him to the soil. 

Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose, 

Breathes the keen air and carols as he goes ; 

With patient angle trolls the finny dee23. 

Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep ; 

Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way. 

And drags the struggling savage into day. 

At night returning, every labor sped. 

He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 

Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys 

His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze ; 

While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard. 

Displays her cleanly platter on the board ; 

And haply, too, some pilgrim, thither led. 

With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 

Thus every good his native wilds impart. 
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise 
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund sup|)lies. 
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms. 
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; 
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest. 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, 
So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 

Such are the charms to barren states assign'd ; 
Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd. 
Yet let them only share the praises due. 
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few ; 



214 ^^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

For every want that stimulates the breast 
Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest ; 
Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies^ 
That first excites desire and then supplies ; 
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, 
To fill the languid j^ause with finer joy; 
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame. 
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. 
Their level life is but a mouldering fire, 
Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire ; 
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
On some high festival of once a year. 
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire. 
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow; 
Their morals, like their j^leasures, are but low ; 
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
Unalter'd, unim^Drov'd the manners run, 
And love's and friendship's finely-pointed dart 
Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest; 
But all the gentler morals, such as play 
Thro' life's more cultui-'d walks, and charm the way. 
These, far dispersed on timorous pinions, fly 
To S2:)ort and flutter in a kinder sky. 

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
I turn, and France displays her bright domain. 
Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please 
How often have I led thy sjoortive choir, 
TTith tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire ! 
Where shading elms along the margin grew. 
And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew; 
And haply, though my harsh touch, falt'riDg still, 
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancers skill, 
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power. 
And dance, fors^etful of the noon-tide hour. 
Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days 
Have led their children throuo-h the mirthful maze; 



Oliver Goldsmith. 215 

And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, 
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. 

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display, 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away ; 
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, 
For honor forms the social temper here. 
Honor, that praise which real merit gains. 
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains. 
Here passes current; paid from hand to hand. 
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land ; 
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays. 
And all are taught an avarice of praise ; 
They j^lease, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem, 
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. 

But while this softer art their bliss supplies. 
It gives their follies also room to rise ; 
For praise too dearly lov'd or warmly sought 
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought. 
And the weak soul, within itself unblest, 
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art. 
Pants for the vulgar j)raise which fools impart ; 
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace. 
And trims her robes of f rize with copper lace ; 
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
To boast one splendid banquet once a year; 
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, 
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 

To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. 
Methinks her patient sons before me stand. 
Where the broad ocean leans against the land. 
And sedulous to stop the coming tide, ' 

Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, 
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; 
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar. 
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore. 
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, 
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 



2 1 6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

The slow canal, the yellow-blossom 'd vale, 
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail. 
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
A new creation rescued from his reign. 

Thus while around the wave-subjected soil 
Impels the native to repeated toil, 
Industrious habits in each bosom reign. 
And industry begets a love of gain. 
Hence all the good from opulence that springs, 
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings. 
Are here display'd. Their muchrloved wealth imparts 
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; 
But view them closer, craft and fraud appear, 
E'en liberty itself is barter'd here. 
At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, 
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys ; 
A land of tyrants and a den of slaves. 
Here wretches seek dishonorable graves. 
And calmly bent, to servitude conform, 
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 

Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old ! 
Kough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; 
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow ; 
How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 

Fir'd at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, 
And flies where Britain courts the western spring; 
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride. 
And brighter streams than fam'd Hydaspes glide 
There all around the gentlest breezes stray. 
There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
Creation's mildest charms are there combined. 
Extremes are only in the master's mind ! 
Stern o'er each bosom Keason holds her state. 
With daring aims irregularly great; 
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
I see the lords of human kind pass by ; 
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band. 
By forms unfashion'd fresh from Nature's hand. 
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul. 
True to imagined right, above control, 



Oliver Goldsmith, 217 

While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 
And learns to yenerate himself as man. 

Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here. 
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ; 
Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy, 
But foster'd e'en by Freedom ills annoy ; 
That independence Britons prize too high. 
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie; 
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, 
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown; 
Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held. 
Minds combat minds, repelling and repelFd. 
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 
Eeprest ambition struggles round her shore, 
Till, overwrought, the general system feels 
Its motions stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 

Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay. 
As duty, love, and honor fail to sway. 
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, 
Still gather strength and force unwilling awe. 
Hence all obedience bows to thee alone, " 
And talent sinks and merit weeps unknown. 
Till time may come when, stript of all her charms. 
The land of scholars and the nurse of arms, 
"Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame. 
Where kings have toil'd and poets wrote for fame, 
One sink of level avarice shall lie. 
And scholars, soldiers, kings unhonor'd die. 
. Yet think not, thus when freedom's ills I state, 
I mean to flatter kings or court the great ; 
Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire. 
Far from my bosom drive the low desire ; 
And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
The rabble's rage and tyrants' angry steel. 
Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
By proud contempt or favor's fostering sun. 
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, 
I only would repress them to secure ; 
For just experience tells, in every soil, 
That those that think must govern those that toil; 



2i8 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

And all that freedom's highest aims can reach 
Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. 
Hence, should one order disjDroportion'd grow. 
Its double weight must ruin all below. 
Oh ! then how blind to all that truth requires 
Who think it freedom when a part aspires I 
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
ExcejDt when fast approachiug danger warms ; 
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne. 
Contracting regal power to stretch their own, 
When I behold a factious band agree 
To call it freedom when themselYes are free ; 
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw. 
Laws grind the j^oor, and rich men rule the law ; 
The wealth of climes, where sayasre nations roam, 
Pillag'd fi'om slaves to purchase slaves at home • 
Fear, pity, justice, indignation start. 
Tear off reserve, and bare mv swellinof heart. 
Till, half a patriot, half a coward gi'own, 
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 

Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour 
When first ambition struck at regal power, 
And, thus polluting honor in its source. 
Grave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore. 
Her useful sons exchan2:*d for useless ore ? 
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, 
Like flaring tapers bright'ning as they waste ; 
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, 
Lead stern depopulation in her train, 
And over fields where scattered hamlets rose 
In barren, solitary pomjD repose ? 
Have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call 
The smiling, long-frequented village fall ? 
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd. 
The modest matron, and the blushing maid, 
Forc'd from their homes a melancholy train, 
To traverse chmes beyond the western main. 
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamp around. 
And Xiagara stuns with thund'ring sound ? 



Oliver Goldsmith. 219 

E'en now, perhaps, as there some i^ilgrim strays, 
Through tangled forests and through dangerous ways ; 
Where beasts with man divided empire claim, 
And the brown Indian marks with murd'rous aim ; 
There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
And all around distressful yells arise. 
The pensive exile, bending with his woe. 
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go ; 
Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. 

Vain, very vain, my w^eary search to find 
That bliss which only centres in the mind ; 
Why have I strayed from pleasure and rei^ose. 
To seek a good each government bestows ? 
In every government, though terrors reign, 
Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain . 
How small of all that human hearts endure 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure. 
Still to ourselves in every place consigned, 
Our own felicity w^e make or find ; 
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy. 
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel, 
To men remote from power but rarely known, 
Leave reason, faith, and conscience all our owni. 



RETALIATION. 

[A club of literary men used to meet at the St. James's Coffee-House, in St. 
James's Street, and soon after Goldsmith was elected a member he was made 
the butt of their witticisms, both spoken and written, on account of his provincial 
dialect and the oddity of his appearance. In a good-humored manner he subse- 
quently produced and read the following poem.] 

Of old, when Scarron ^ his companions invited. 

Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united ; 

If our landlord ^ supplies ns with beef and with fish. 

Let each guest bring himself — and he brings the best dish. 

® A celebrated French writer of burlesque. 
^ The land ord of the coffee-house. 



2 20 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland: 

Our dean ^ shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; 
Our Burkes ^ shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains ; 
Our Will ' shall be wild-fowl of excellent flavor ; 
And Dick " with his pepper shall heighten the savor ; 
Our Cumberland's ^^ sweet-bread its place shall obtain, 
And Douglas '^ is pudding, substantial and plain ; 
Our Garrick's ^* a salad, for in him we see 
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree ; 
To make out the dinner, full certain I am 
That Eidge ^* is anchovy, and Eeynolds" is lamb ; 
That Hickey's " a capon, and, by the same rule. 
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberiy fool. 
At a dinner so various, at such a repast. 
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? 
Here, waiter, more wine I let me sit while I'm able. 
Till all my companions sink under the table ; 
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, 
Let me ponder and tell what I think of the dead. 

Here lies the good dean,'® reunited to earth. 
Who mix'd reason with pleasure and wisdom with mirth ; 
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt. 
At least in six weeks I could not find 'em out ; 
Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em. 
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. 

Here lies our good Edmund," whose genius was such 
We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much ; 
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind. 
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind, 

8 Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry. 

9 The Right Hon. Edmund Burke. 

10 Mr. William Burke, a relation of Edmund Burke, and M.P. for Bedwin. 

11 Mr. Richard Burke, a barrister, and younger brother of Edmund Burke, and Bd- 
corder of Bristol. 

12 The dramatist. 

13 Dr. Douglas, a Scotchman, canon of Windsor, and afterwards Bishop of Carlisle. 
1* The celebrated actor. 

1^ John Ridge, a barrister in the Irish courts. 
i« Sir Joshua Reynolds. 
1'' An Irish lawyer. 
1" Dean Barnard. 
!•' Edmund Burke. 



Oliver Goldsmith. 



221 



Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat 
To persuade Tommy Townshend " to lend him a vote; 
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, 
And thought of convincing while they thought of dining; 
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, 
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; 
For a patriot too cool ; for a drudge disobedient. 
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. 
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir, 
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 

Here lies honest William," whose heart was a mint. 
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't ; 
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along. 
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong ; 
Still aiming at honor, yet fearing to roam. 
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home. 
Would you ask for his merits, alas ! he had none ; 
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. 

Here lies honest Richard," whose fate I must sigh at ; 
Alas ! that such frolic should now be so quiet. 
What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim ! 
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb I ^^ 
JN'ow wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball, 
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! 
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick 
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick ; 
But missing his mirth and agreeable A'ein, 
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. 

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts. 
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; 
A flattering painter, who made it his care 
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. 
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine. 
And comedy wonders at being so fine ; 

'«' Thomas Townshend, afterwards Lord Sydney. 

21 WiUiam Burke. 

32 Richard Burke. 

a» Richard Burke loved a jest, and he ucfortunately broke one of his legs. 



0/^7 



2 2 2 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

Like a tragedy queen he has dizeii'd her out, 
Or rather like tragedy given a rout. 
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd 
Of virtues and feelings that folly grows proud ; 
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone. 
Adopting his portraits, are pleas'd with their own. 
Say, where has our poet this malady caught. 
Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault ? 
Say, was it that vainly directing his v'ew 
To find out man's virtues, and finding them few. 
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf. 
He grew lazy at last and drew for himself ? 

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax. 
The scourge of impostors the terror of quacks ; 
Come all ye quack bards and ye quacking divines, 
Come and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines. 
When satire and censure encircled his throne ; 
I fear'd for your safety, I f ear'd for my own ; 
But now he is gone and we want a detector. 
Our Dodds" shall be pious, our Kenricks " shall lecture; 
Macj)herson "^^ write bombast and call it a style, 
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ; 
New Landers and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over," 
No countryman living their tricks to discover ; 
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark. 
And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark. 

Here lies David G-arrick, describe me who can. 
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; 
As an actor, confest without rival to shine ; 
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line ; 
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart. 
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. 
Like an ill-judging beauty his colors he spread, 
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. 

2* The notorious Dr. Dodd, who was hanged for forgery. 

25 Dr. Kenrick used to deliver lectures at the Devil's Tavern, under the title of " The 
School of ^hakspea^e.■' 

2" James Macpherson made a prose translation of Homer, to which allusion is here 
made. 

2" Lauder and Bowe. were two Scotch authors of bad moral character. 



Oliver Goldsmith. 223 

On the stage lie was natural, simple, affecting ; 

'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. 

With no reason on earth to get out of his way, 

He tnrn'd and he varied full ten times a day ; 

Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick. 

If they were not his own by finessing and trick ; 

He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack, 

For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back. 

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came, 

And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; 

'Till bis relish, grown callous almost to disease, 

Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please ; 

But let us be candid and speak out our mind. 

If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 

Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys," and Woodfalls^^ so grave, 

What a commerce was yours while you got and you gave ! 

How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd 

While he was be-Eoscius'd and you were bepraised ! 

But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies. 

To act as an angel and mix with the skies ; 

Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill 

Shall be his flatterers, go where he will, 

Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love, 

And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. 

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature. 
And slander itself must allow him good nature. 
He cherish'd his friend and he relish'd a bumper ; 
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper ! 
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ? 
I answer, Xo, no, for he always was wiser. 
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? 
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. 
Perhaps he confided in men as they go, 
And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah ! no. 
Then what was his failing ? come, tell it and burn ye. 
He was, could he help it ? a special attorney. 

" The autho of " Words to the Wis°," " Ulementina," '• School for Wives,"' etc. 
2» Printer of the Morning Chronicle, died ieC3. 



224 '^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

Here Eeynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind. 
He has not left a wiser or better behind ; 
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand, 
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland. 
Still born to improve us in every part. 
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart ; 
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering 
When they jndg'd without skill he was still hard of hearing; 
When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff 
He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff. ^° 



EDWIN" AKD Ai^GELINA. 

A Ballad. 

" TuKN, gentle hermit of the dale, 
And guide my lonely way 
To where yon taper cheers the vale 
With hospitable ray. 

*' For here forlorn and lost I tread, 
With fainting steps and slow. 
Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
Seem length'ning as I go." 

^'Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, 
'* To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 
For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

*'Here to the houseless child of want 
My door is open still. 
And though my portion is but scant 
I give it with good will. 

"Then turn to-night and freely share 
Whate'er my cell bestows. 
My rushy couch and frugal fare, 
My blessing and repose. 

'0 Sir Joshua Reynolds was deaf and used an ear-trumpet. He also took a great quan- 
tity of snufl. 



Oliver Goldsmith. 225 

"No flocks that range the valley free 
To slaughter I condemn ; 
Taught by that Power that pities me, 
I learn to pity them. 

*' But from the mountain's grassy side 
A guiltless least I bring ; 
A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'd, 
And water from the spring. 

*'Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; 
All earth-born cares are wrong ; 
Man wants but little here below, 
y Nor wants that little long." | 

Soft as the dew from heaven descends 

His gentle accents fell ; 
The modest stranger lowly bends. 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in a wilderness obscure 

The lonely mansion lay, 
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor 

And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath his humble thatch 

Requir'd a master's care. 
The wicket, opening with a latch, 

Eeceiv'd the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 

To take their ev'ning rest, 
The hermit trimm'd his little fire. 

And cheer'd his pensive guest : 

And spread his vegetable store, 

And gaily press'd and smil'd ; 
And, skiird in legendary lore. 

The ling'ring hours beguil'd. 



226 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

Around in sympathetic mirth 
Its tricks the kitten tries ; 

The cricket chirrups in the hearth, 
The crackhng fagot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 
To soothe the stranger's woe ; 

For grief was heavy at his heart. 
And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the hermit spy'd. 
With answ'ring care opprest : 
" And whence, unhappy yonth," he cry'd. 
The sorrows of thy breast ? 



*^ From better habitations spurn'd, 
Eehictant dost thou rove ? 
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, 
Or unregarded love ? 

^^ Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 
Are trifling, and decay ; 
And those who prize the paltry things 
More trifling still than they. 

*' And what is friendship but a name, 
A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
A shade that follows wealth or fame. 
But leaves the wretch to weep ? 

*' And love is still an emptier sound. 
The modern fair-one's jest. 
On earth unseen, or only found 
To warn the turtle's nest. 



a 



For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 

And spurn the sex," he said ; 
But while he spoke a rising blush 

His love-lorn guest betray'd. 



Oliver Goldsmith. 227 

Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise, 

Swift mantling to the view, 
Like colors o'er the morning skies. 

As bright, as transient too. 

The baslifiil look, the rising breast. 

Alternate spread alarms; 
The lovely stranger stands confest 

A maid in all her charms. 

** And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 

A wi'etch forlorn," she cried, 
*' Whose feet nnhallow'd thus intrude 

Where Heav'n and von reside. 

** But let a maid thy pity share. 
Whom love has taught to stray ; 
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 

^' My father liv'd beside the Tyne. 
A wealthy lord was he, 
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine ; 
He had but only me. 

**To win me from his tender arms 
Unnumber'd suitors came. 
Who j^rais'd me for imputed charms. 
And felt, or feign'd, a flame. 

**Each hour a mercenary crowd 
With richest proffers strove ; 
Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd. 
But never talk'd of love. 

** In humble, simplest habit clad, 
Xo wealth nor power had he ; 
Wisdom and worth were all he had. 
But these were all to me. 



228 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

^'And when beside me in the dale 
He carol'd lays of loye, 
His breath lent fragrance to the gale 
And music to the grove. 

*' The blossom opening to the day, 
The dews of heav'n refin'd, 
Conld nought of purity display 
To emulate his mind. 

*^ The dew, the blossom on the tree, 
With charms inconstant shine ; 
Their charms were his, but, woe to me. 
Their constancy was mine. 

*' For still I try'd each fickle art, 
Importunate and vain ; 
And while his passion touch'd my heart, 
I triumph'd in his pain. 



a 



Till, quite dejected with my scorn, 

He left me to my pride. 
And sought a solitude forlorn. 

In secret, where he died. 



*^ But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. 
And well my life shall jiay ; 
I'll seek the solitude he sought. 
And stretch me where he lay. 

*^ And there forlorn despairing hid, 
I'll lay me down and die ; 
'Twas so for me that Edmn did. 
And so for him will I." 

*^ Forbid it Heay'n ! " the hermit cry'd. 
And clasp'd her to his breast. 
The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide — 
'Twas Edwin's self that press'd. 



Oliver Goldsmith, 229 

''Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 
My charmer, turn to see 
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 
Restor'd to love and thee. 

*' Thus let me hold thee to my heart. 
And every care resign. 
And shall we never, never part, 
My life, my all that's mine ? 

'^ No, never from this hour to part. 
We'll live and love so true ; 
The sigh that rends thy constant heart 
Shall break thy Edwin's too." 



AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZB. 

Good people all, with one accord, 

Lament for Madam Blaize, 
Who never wanted a good word — . 

From those who spoke her praise. 

The needy seldom pass'd her door. 

And always found her kind ; 
She freely lent to all the poor — 

Who left a pledge behind. 

She strove the neighborhood to please. 
With manners wondrous winning ; 

And never follow'd wicked ways — 
Unless when she was sinning. 

At church, in silks and satins new. 

With hoop of monstrous size. 
She never slumber'd in her jdcw — 

But when she shut her eyes. 

Her love was sought, I do aver, 

By twenty beaux and more ; 
The king himself has follow'd her — 

When she has walk'd before. 



230 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

But now her wealth and finery fled. 
Her hangers on cut short all ; 

The doctors found, when she was dead> 
Her last disorder mortal. 

Let us lament in sorrow sore, 
For Kent Street well may say. 

That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more^ 
She had not died to-day. 



AN ELEGY OK THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 

Good people all, of every sort. 

Give ear unto my song. 
And if you find it wondrous short. 

It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man 
Of whom the world might say 

That still a godly race he ran 
Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had 
To comfort friends and foes; 
The naked every day he clad, 

"When he put on his clothes. 

# 

And in that town a dog was found, 

As many dogs there be, 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound^ 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends, 

But when a pique began. 
The dog, to gain some private ends. 

Went mad, and bit the man. 

.Around from all the neighboring streets 
The wondering neighbors ran. 

And swore the dog had lost his wits 
To bite so o-ood a man. 



Oliver Goldsmith. 231 

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad 

To every Christian eye ; 
And while they swore the dog was mad. 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light 

That showed the rogues they 11 ; - . 
The man recovered of the bit 

The dog it was that died. 



THE clown's reply. 

John" Trot was desired by two witty peers 
To tell them the reason why asses had ears. 
" An't please you/' quoth John, ^' I'm not given to letters, 
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters ; 
Howe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, 
As I hope to be sav'd! without thinking on asses." 



EPITAPH OJ^ EDWARD PURDOK. 

Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, 
Who long was a bookseller's hack ; 

He led such a damnable life in this world, 
1 don't think he'll wish to come back. 



EPITAPH OIT DR. PARK ell. 

This tomb, inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name. 

May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. 

What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay. 

That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way ! 

Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid, 

And Heav'n, that lent him genius, was repaid. 

Needless to him the tribute we bestow 

The transitory breath of fame below ; 

More lasting rapture from his works shall rise. 

While converts thank their poet in the skies. 



232 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

GOLDSMITH'S ESSAYS. 
THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 

As I am one of that sauntering tribe of mortals who spend the 
greatest part of their time in taverns, coffee-houses, and other 
places of public resort, I have thereby an opportunity of observing 
an infinite variety of characters, which, to a person of a contempla- 
tive turn, is a much higher entertainment than a view of all the 
curiosities of art or nature. In one of these my late rambles I acci- 
dentally fell into the company of half a dozen gentlemen who were 
engaged in a warm dispute about some political affair, the decision 
of which, as they were equally divided in their sentiments, they 
thought proper to refer to me, which naturally drew me in for a 
share of the conversation. 

Amongst a multiplicity of other topics, we took occasion to talk 
of the different characters of the several nations of Europe, when 
one of the gentlemen, cocking his hat and assuming such an air of 
importance as if he had possessed all the merit of the English 
nation in his own i^erson, declared that the Dutch were a parcel of 
avaricious wretches, the French a set of flattering sycophants, that 
the Germans were drunken sots and beastly gluttons, and the Span- 
iards proud, haughty, and surly tyi'ants ; but that in bravery, 
generosity, clemency, and in every other virtue the English excelled 
all the rest of the Avorld. 

This very learned and judicious remarh was received with a 
general smile of approbation by all the company — all, I mean, but 
your humble servant, who, endeavoring to keep my gravity as well 
as I could, and, reclining my head upon my arm, continued for 
some time in a posture of affected thoughtfulness, as if I had been 
musing on something else, and did not seem to attend to the sub- 
ject of conversation, hoping by these means to avoid the disagree- 
able necessity of explaining myself, and thereby depriving the gen- 
tleman of his imaginary happiness. 

But my pseudo patriot had no mind to let me escape so easily. 
Not satisfied that his opinion should 2)ass without contradiction, he 
was determined to have it ratified by the suffrage of every one in the 
company, for which purpose, addressing himself to me with an air 
of inexpressible confidence, he asked me if I was not of the same 
w^ay of thinking. As I am never forward in giving my opinion, 
especially when I have reason to believe that it will not be agree- 



Oliver Goldsmzlk. 233 

able ; so, when I am obliged to give it, I always hold it for a maxim 
to speak my real sentiments. I therefore told him that, for my 
own j^art, I should not have ventured to talk in such a peremptory 
strain unless I had made the tour of Europe and examined the 
manners of these several nations with great care and accuracy ; 
that perhaps a more impartial judge would not scruple to affirm 
that the Dutch were more frugal and industrious, the French more 
tem23erate and polite, the G-ermans more hardy and patient of labor 
and fatigue, and the Spaniards more staid and sedate, than the 
English, who, though undoubtedly brave and generous, were at the 
same time rash, headstrong, and impetuous ; too apt to be elated 
with prosperity and to despond in adversity. 

I could easily perceive that all the company began to regard me 
with a jealous eye before I had finished my answer, which I had no 
sooner done than the patriotic gentlemg^n observed, with a con- 
temptuous sneer, that he was greatly surprised how some people 
could have the conscience to live in a country which they did not 
love, and to enjoy the protection of a government to which in their 
hearts they were inveterate enemies. Finding that by this modest 
declaration of my sentiments I had forfeited the good opinion of 
my com^Danions, and given them occasion to call my political princi- 
ple in question, and well knowing that it was in vain to argue with 
men who were so very full of themselves, I threw down my reckon- 
ing and retired to my own lodgings, reflecting on the absurd and 
ridiculous nature of national prejudice and prepossession. 

Among all the famous sayings of antiquity there is none that 
does greater honor to the author, or affords greater pleasure to the 
reader (at least if he be a person of generous and benevolent heart), 
than that of the philosopher who, being asked what ^^ countryman 
he was," replied that he was ^^ a citizen of the world." How few are 
there to be found in modern times who can say the same, or whose 
conduct is consistent with such a profession ! "We are now become 
so much Englishmen, Frenchmen, Dutchmen, Spaniards, or Ger- 
mans that we are no longer citizens of the world ; so much 
the natives of one particular spot, or members of one petty society, 
that we no longer consider ourselves as the general inhabitants of the 
globe, or members of that grand society which comprehends the 
whole human kind. 

Did these prejudices prevail only among the meanest and lowest 
of the people, perhaps they might be excused, as they have few, if 



2 34 ^'^^ Pilose and Poetry of I Iceland. 

any, opportunities of correcting them by reading, travelling, or con- 
versing with foreigners ; but the misfortune is that they infect the 
minds and influence the conduct even of oar gentlemen — of those, 
I mean, who have every title to this appellation but an exemption 
from prejudice, which, however' in my opinion, ought to be regard- 
ed as the characteristical mark of a gentleman ; for let a man's birth 
be ever so high, his station ever so exalted, or his fortune ever so 
large, yet if he is not free from national and other prejudices, I 
should make bold to tell him that he had a low and vulgar mind, 
and had no just claim to the character of a gentleman. And in 
fact you will always find that those are most aj^t to boast of na- 
tional merit who have little or no merit of their own to depend on, 
than which, to be sure, nothing is more natural ; the slender vine 
twists around the sturdy oak for no other reason in the world but 
because it has not strength sufficient to support itself. 

Should it be alleged in defence of national prejudice that it is 
the natural and necessary growth of love to our country, and that 
therefore the former cannot be destroyed without hurting the latter, 
I answer that this is a gross fallacy and delusion. That it is the 
growth of love to our country I will allow, but that it is the natu- 
ral and necessary growth of it I absolutely deny. Superstition and 
enthusiasm, too, are the growth of religion ; but who ever took it 
into his head to affirm that they are the necessary growth of this 
noble principle ? They are, if you will, the bastard sprouts of this 
heavenly plant, but not its natural and genuine branches, and may 
safely enough be lopt off without doing any harm to the parent 
stock — nay, perhaps, till once they are lopt off this goodly tree can 
never flourish in perfect health and vigor. 

Is it not very possible that I may love my own country without 
hating the natives of other countries ? that I may exert the most 
heroic bravery, the most undaunted resolution, in defending its 
laws and liberty without despising all the rest of the world as cow- 
ards and poltroons ? Most certainly it is ; and if it were not — but 
wliat need I supjDose what is absolutely impossible ? — but if it were 
not, I must own, I should j)refer the title of the ancient philoso^ 
jolier — viz., a citizen of the world — to that of an Englishman, a 
Frenchman, a Eiirojoean, or to any other appellation Avhatever. 



Oliver Goldsmith, 



'^ZS 



CAROLAiir, THE IKISH BARD. 

There can be, perhaps, no greater entertainment than to compare 
the rude Celtic simplicity with modern refinement. Books, how- 
ever, seem incapable of furnishing the parallel ; and to be acquainted 
with the ancient manners of our own ancestors, we should endeavor 
to look for their remains in those countries which, being in some 
measure retired from an intercourse with other nations, are still 
untinctured with foreign refinement, language, or breeding. 

The Irish will satisfy curiosity in this respect preferably to all 
other nations I have seen. They, in several parts of that country, 
still adhere to their ancient language, dress, furniture, and supersti- 
tions ; several customs exist among them that still speak their ori- 
ginal ; and in some respects Caesar's description of the ancient Bri- 
tons is applicable to them. 

Their bards, in particular, are still held in great veneration among 
them. Those traditional heralds are invited to every funeral, in order 
to fill up the intervals of the howl with their songs and harps. In 
these they rehearse the actions of the ancestors of the deceased, be- 
wail the bondage of their country under the English Grovernment, 
and generally conclude witlr advising the young men and maidens 
to make the best use of their time, for they will soon, for all their 
present bloom, be stretched under the table, like the dead body be- 
fore them. 

Of all the bards this country ever produced, the last and the 
greatest was Carolan the Blind. He was at once a poet, a musician, 
a composer, and sung his own verses to his harp. The original na- 
tives never mention his name without rapture ; both his poetry and 
music they have by heart; and even some of the English themselves 
who have been transplanted there find his music extremely pleas- 
ing. A song beginning, ^^ O'Rourke's noble fare will ne'er be for- 
got," translated by Dean Swift, is of his composition, which, though 
perhaps by this means the best known of hjs pieces, is yet by no 
means the most deserving. His songs in general may bo compared 
to those of Pindar, as they have frequently the same flights of imagi- 
nation, and are composed (I don't say written, for he could not 
write,) merely to flatter some man of fortune u]oon some excellence 
of the same kind. In these one man is praised for the excellence 
of his stable, as in Pindar, another for his hospitality, a tliird for 
the beauty of his wife and children, and a fourth for tlie antiquity 



/^ 



236 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

of his family. Whenever any of the original natives of distinction 
were assembled at feasting or revelling, Carolan was generally there, 
where he was always ready with his harp to celebrate their praises. 
He seemed by nature formed for his profession ; for as he was born 
blind, so also was he possessed of a most astonishing memory, and 
a facetious turn of thinking, which gave his entertainers infinite 
satisfaction. Being once at the house of an Irish nobleman, where 
there was a musician present who was eminent in the ]irofession, 
Carolan immediately challenged him to a trial of skill. To carry 
his jest forward, his lordship persuaded the musician to accept the 
challenge, and he accordingly played over on his fiddle the whole 
piece after him, without missing a note, though he had never heard 
it before, which produced some surprise ; but their astonishment 
increased when he assured them he could make a concerto in the 
same taste himself, which he instantly composed, and that with 
such spirit and elegance that we may compare it (for we have it still) 
with the finest compositions of Italy. 

His death was not more remarkable than his life. Homer was 
never more fond of a glass than he ; he would drink whole pints of 
usquebaugh, and, as he used to think, without any ill consequence. 
His intemperance, however, in this respect, at length brought on an 
incurable disorder, and when just at the point of death, he called for 
a cup of his beloved liquor. Those who were standing round him, 
surprised at the demand, endeavored to persuade him to the con- 
trary ; but he persisted, and when the bowl was brought him, at- 
tempted to drink, but could not ; wherefore, giving away the bowl, 
he observed with a smile that it would be hard if two such friends 
as he and the cup should part, at least without kissing, and then 
expired. 



THE DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD, IN WHICH A 
KINDRED LIKENESS PREVAILS, AS WELL OF 3riNDS AS OP PER- 
SONS." 

I WAS ever of opinion that the honest man who married and 
brought up a large family did more service than he who continued 
single and only talked of population. From this motive I had 
scarce taken orders a year before I began to think seriously of 

31 This is the first chapter of the "Vicar of Wakefield." 



Oliver Goldsiitith. 237 

matrimony, and chose my wife, as slie did her wedding-gown, not 
for a fine glossy surface, but such qualities as would wear well. 
To do her justice, she was a good-natured, notable woman ; and as 
for breeding, there were few country ladies who could show more. 
She could read any English book without much spelling ; but for 
pickling, preserving, and cookery none could excel her. She 
prided herself also upon being an excellent contriyer in house- 
keeping, though I could never find that we gi'ew richer with all 
her contrivances. 

However, we loved eacli other tenderly, and our fondness in- 
creased as we grew old. There was, in fact, nothing that could 
make us angry with the world or each other. We had an elegant 
house, situated in a fine country, and a good neighborhood. The 
year was spent in a moral or rural amusement, in visiting our rich 
neighbors and relieving such as were j)oor. We had no revolutions 
to fear, nor fatigues to undergo ; all our adventures were by the 
fireside, and all our migrations from the blue bed to the brown. 

As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or stranger 
visit us to taste our gooseberry wine, for which we had great re- 
putation ; and I profess, Avith. the veracity of an historian, that I 
never knew one of them find fault with it. Our cousins, too, even 
to the fortieth remove, all remembered their affinity, without any 
help from the herald's office, and came very frequently to see us. 
Some of them did us no great honor by these claims of kindred, 
as we had the blind, the maimed, and the halt amongst the number. 
However, my wife always insisted that as they were the same f^e^li 
and Mood, they should sit with us at the same table. So that if we 
had not very rich we generally had very happy friends about us ; 
for this remarJv will hold good through life, that the poorer the 
guest the better pleased he ever is with being treated ; and as some 
men gaee with admiration at the colors of a tulip or the wing of a 
butterfly, so I was by nature an admirer of happy human faces. 
However, when any of our relations was found to be a j^erson of a 
very bad character, a troublesome guest, or one we desired to get 
rid of, upon his leaving my house I ever took care to lend him a 
riding-coat, or a pair of boots, or sometimes a horse of small value, 
and I always had the satisfaction of finding he never came back to 
return them. By this the house was cleared of such as we did not 
like ; but never was the family of Wakefield known to turn the 
traveller or the poor dependent out of doors. 



238 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

Thas we lived several years in a state of much happiness, not but 
that we sometimes had those little rubs which Providence sends to 
enhance the value of its favors. My orchard was often robbed by 
school-boys, and my wife's custards plundered by the cats or the 
children. The squire would sometimes fall asleep in the most 
pathetic parts of my sermon, or his lady return my wife's civilities 
at church with a mutilated courtesy. But we soon got pver the 
uneasiness caused by such accidents, and usually in three or four 
days began to wonder how they vexed us. 

My children, the offspring of temperance, as they were educated 
without softness so they were at once well formed and healthy, my 
sons hardy and active, my daughters beautiful and blooming. 
When I stood in the midst of the little circle, which promised to 
be the supports of my declining age, I could not avoid repeating 
the famous story of Count Abensburg, who, in Henry II.'s progress 
through Germany, while other courtiers came with their treasures, 
brought his thirty-two children and presented them to his sovereign 
as the most valuable offering he had to bestow. In this manner, 
though I had but six, I considered them as a very valuable present 
made to my country, and consequently looked upon it as my debtor. 
Our eldest son was named George, after his uncle, who left us ten 
thousand pounds. Oar second child, a girl, I intended to call after 
her Aunt Grissel ; but my Avife, who during her pregnancy had been 
reading romances, insisted upon her being called Olivia. In less 
than another year we had another daughter, and now I was de- 
termined that Grissel should be her name; but a rich relation tak- 
ing a fancy to stand godmother, the girl was, by her directions, 
called Sophia ; so that we had two romantic names in the family, 
but I solemnly protest I had no hand it. Moses was our next, and 
after an interval of twelve years we had two sons more. 

It would be fruitless to deny exultation when I saw my little ones 
about me ; but the vanity and the satisfaction of my wife were even 
greater than mine. When our visitors would say, '^ Well, upon my 
word, Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest children in the whole 
country.*' ^^ Ay, neighbor," she would answer, '"■' they are as Heaven 
made them, handsome enough, if they be good enough ; for hand- 
some is that handsome does." And then she would bid the girls 
hold up their heads, who, to conceal nothing, were certainly very 
handsome. Mere outside is so very trifling a circumstance with me 
that I should scarcely have remembered to mention it liad it not 



Oliver Goldsmith. 



239 



been a general topic of conversation in the country. Olivia, now 
about eighteen, had that luxnriancy of beauty with which painters 
generally draw Hebe — open, sprightl}^, and commanding. Sophia's 
features were not so striking at first ; but often did more certain 
execution ; for they were soft, modest, and alluring. The one van- 
quished by a single blow, the other by efforts successfully repeated. 
The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn of her 
features — at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia wished for 
many lovers ; Sophia, to secure one. Olivia was often affected from 
too great a desire to please ; Sophia even repressed excellence from 
her fears to offend. The one entertained me with her vivacity when 
I was gay, the other with her sense when I was serious. But these 
qualities were never carried to excess in either, and ] have often 
seen them exchange characters for a whole day together. A suit of 
mourning has transformed my coquette into a j)rude, and a new set 
of ribbons has given her younger sister more than natural vivacity. 
My eldest son, George, was bred at Oxford, as I intended him for 
one of the learned professions. My second boy, Moses, whom I de- 
signed for business, received a sort of miscellaneous education at 
home. But it is needless to attemj)t describing the particular 
characters of young people that had seen but very little of the 
world. In short, a family likeness prevailed through all ; and, 
properly speaking, they had but one character — that of being all 
equally generous, credulous, simple, and inoffensive. 



LETTER FROM LIEK CHI ALTANGI TO * * *, MERCHANT IK AMSTER- 
DAM LOZSTDOIT AKD ITS P^EOPLE. '^ 

Friend of my Heart : May the ivings of loeace rest upon thy 
dwelling, and the shield of conscience preserve thee from vice and 
misery! For all thy favors accept my gratitude and esteem, the 
only tributes a poor philosophic Avanderer can return. Sure, fortune 
is resolved to make me unhappy, when she gives others a power of 
testifying their friendship by actions, and leaves me only words to 
express the sincerity of mine. 

I am perfectly sensible of the delicacy with which you endeavor 
to lessen your own merit and my obHgations. By calling your late 

'2 In these letters— or rather essays in the foim of letters— Goldsmith assumed the 
character of a Chinese philosopher. 



240 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

instances of friendship only a return for former favors, you would 
induce me to imj)ute to your justice what I owe to your generosity. 

The services I did you at Canton, justice, humanity, and my office 
bade me perform ; those you have done me since my arrival at 
Amsterdam no laws obliged you to, no justice required ; even half 
your favors would have been greater than my most sanguine expec- 
tations. 

The sum of money, therefore, which you privately conveyed into 
my baggage when I was leaving Holland, and which I was ignorant 
of till my arrival in London, I must beg leave to return. You have 
been bred a merchant, and I a scholar ; you consequently love 
money better than I. You can find pleasure in superfluity ; I am 
perfectly content with what is sufficient. Take, therefore, what is 
yours ; it may give you some pleasure, even though you have no 
occasion to use it ; my happiness it cannot improve, for I have 
already all that I want. 

My passage by sea from Eotterdam to England was more painful 
to me than all the journeys I ever made on land. I have traversed 
the immeasurable wilds of Mogul Tartary ; felt all the rigors of 
Siberian skies ; I have had my repose a hundred times disturbed by 
invading savages, and have seen, without shrinking, the desert sands 
rise like a troubled ocean all around me. Against these calamities 
I was armed with a resolution ; but in my passage to England, 
though nothing occurred that gave the mariners any uneasiness, to 
one who was never at sea before all was a subject of astonisliment 
and terror. To find the land disaj^pear, to see our ship mount the 
waves swift as an arrow from the Tartar bow, to hear the wind 
howling through the cordage, to feel a sickness which depresses even 
the spirits of the brave — these were unexpected distresses, and con- 
sequently assaulted me unprepared to receive them. 

You men of Europe think nothing of a voyage by sea. With us 
of China a man who has been from sight of land is regarded upon 
his return with' admiration. I have known some provinces where 
there is not even a name for the ocean. What a strange people, 
therefore, am I got amongst, who have founded an empire on this 
unstable clement, who build cities upon billows that rise higher than 
the mountains of Tiptartala, and make the deep more formidable 
than the wildest tempest. 

Such accounts as these, I must confess, were my first motives for 
seeing England. These induced me to undertake a journey of seven 



Oliver Golds?nith. 241 

hundred painful days, in order to examine its oj^ulence, buildings, 
sciences, arts, and manufactures on the spot. Judge, then, my dis- 
appointment on entering London to see no signs of that opulence 
so much talked of abroad. Whereyer I turn I am presented with a 
gloomy solemnity in the houses, the streets, and the inhabitants ; 
none of that beautiful gilding which makes a principal ornament in 
Chinese architecture. The streets of Nankin are sometimes strewed 
with gold leaf. Very different are those of London ; in the midst of 
their pavements a great lazy puddle moves muddily along ; heavy- 
laden machines, with wheels of unweildy thickness, crowd up every 
passage, so that a stranger, instead of finding time for observation, 
is often happy if he has time to escape from being crushed to 
pieces. 

The houses borrow very few ornaments from architecture ; their 
chief decoration seems to be a paltry piece of j)ainting hung out at 
their doors or windows, at once a proof of their indigence and 
vanity — their vanity, in each having one of those pictures exj)osed 
to public view ; and their indigence, in being unable to get them 
better j)ainted. In this respect the fancy of their painters is also 
deplorable. Could you believe it ? I have seen five black lions and 
three blue boars in less than the circuit of half a mile ; and yet you 
know that animals of these colors are nowhere to be found except in 
the wild imaginations of Europe. 

From these circumstances in their buildings, and from the dismal 
looks of the inhabitants, I am induced to conclude that the nation 
is actually poor ; and that, like the Persians, they make a splendid 
figure everywhere but at home. The proverb of Xixofu is, that a 
man's riches may be seen in his eyes. If we judge of the English by 
this rule, there is not a poorer nation under the sun. 

I have been here but two days, so will not be hasty in my deci- 
sions. Such letters as I shall write to Fipsihi, in Moscow, I beg you'll 
endeavor to forward with all diligence. I shall send them open, in 
order that you may take copies or translations, as you are equally 
versed in the Dutch and Chinese languages. Dear friend, think of 
my absence Avith regret, as I sincerely regret yours ; even while I 
write, I lament our separation. Farewell I 



242 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland, 

LETTEE FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI TO FUM HOAM, FIRST PRESIDENT 
OF THE CEREMONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN, IN CHINA — PICTURE 
OF A LONDON SHOPKEEPER. 

The shops of London are as well furnished as those of Pekin. 
Those of London have a picture hung at their door, informing the 
passengers what they have to sell, as those at Pekin have a board to 
assure the buyer that they have no intention to cheat him. 

I was this morning to buy silk for a nightcap. Immediately upon 
entering the mercer's shop, the master and his two men, with wigs 
plastered with powder, appeared to ask my commands. They were 
certainly the civilest 2ieoj)le alive ; if I but looked, they flew to the 
place where I cast my eye ; every motion of mine sent them run- 
ning round the whole shop for my satisfaction. I informed them 
that I wanted what was good, and they showed me not less than 
forty j^ieces, and each was better than the former, the jorettiest pat- 
tern in nature, and the fittest in the world for nightca2:)s. ^^ My 
very good friend," said I to the mercer, ^'you must not pretend to 
instruct me in silks ; I know these in particular to be no better 
than your mere flimsy Bungees." "That may be," cried the 
mercer, who I afterwards found had never contradicted a man in 
his life, "' I cannot pretend to say but they may ; but I can assure you 
my Lady Trail has had a sacque from this piece this very morning." 
" But, my friend," said I, " though my lady has chosen a sacque from 
it, I see no necessity that I should wear it for a nightcap." '' That 
may be," returned he again ; " yet what becomes a joretty lady will 
at an}^ time look well on a handsome gentleman." This short 
compliment was thrown in so very seasonably upon my ugly face 
that even though I disliked the silk I desired him to cut me off 
the pattern of a nightcap. 

While this business was consigned to his journeymen, the master 
himself took down some pieces of silk still finer than any I had 
yet seen, and spreading them before me: "There," cries he, 
"' there's beauty ! " My Lord Snakeskin has bespoke the fellow to 
this for the birthnight this very morning \ it would look charmingly 
in waistcoats." " But I do not want a waistcoat," replied L " Not 
want a waistcoat," returned the mercer, " then I would advise you 
to buy one ; when waistcoats are wanted, depend ujDon it, they will 
come dear. Always buy before you want, and you are sure to be 
Avell "used, as they say in Cheapside." There was so much justice 



Oliver Goldsmith. 243 

in his advice that I could not refuse taking it ; besides, the silk, 
which was really a good one, increased the temptation, so I gave 
orders for that too. 

As I was waiting to have my bargains measured and cut, which, 
I know not how, they executed but slowly, during the interval the 
mercer entertained me with the modern manner of some of the no- 
bility receiving company in their morning-gowns. "Perhaps, sir," 
adds he, " you have a mind to see what kind of silk is universally 
worn." Without waiting for my rej^ly, he sj)reads a piece before 
me which might be reckoned beautiful even in China. ^^If the 
nobility," continues he, ^' were to know I sold this to any under a 
right honorable I should certainly lose their custom. You see, my 
lord, it is at once rich and tasty, and quite the thing." ^' I am no 
lord," interrupted I. ^^ I beg pardon," cried he, *^ but be pleased 
to remember when you intend buying a morning-gown that you had 
an offer from me of something worth money. Conscience, sir, 
conscience is my way of dealing ; you may buy a morning-gown 
now, or you may stay till they become dearer and less fashionable ; 
but it is not my business to advise." In short, most reverend Fum, 
he persuaded me to buy a morning-gown also, and w^ould probably 
have jpersuaded me to have bought half the goods in his shop, if I 
liad stayed long enough, or was furnished with sufficient money. 

Upon returning home, I could not help reflecting, with some 
astonishment, how this very man, with such a confined education 
and capacity, was yet capable of turning me as he thought proper, 
and moulding me to his inclinations. I knew he was only answer- 
ing his own purposes, even while he attempted to appear solicitous 
about mine ; yet by a voluntary infatuation, a sort of passion com- 
pounded of vanity and good-nature, I walked into the snare with 
my eyes open, and put myself to future pain in order to give him 
immediate pleasure. The wdsdom of the ignorant somewliat re- 
sembles the instinct of animals; it is diffused in but a very narrow 
sphere, but within that circle it acts with vigor, uniformity, and 
success. Adieu ! 



LETTER FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME — THE ENGLISH LAW COURTS 
AS SEEX BY A CHI^S^ESE PHILOSOPHER. 

1 HAD some intentions lately of going to visit Bedlam, the place 
where those who go mad arc confined. I went to Avait upon tlie 



244 ^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

man in black to be my conductor, but I found him preparing to go 
to Westminster Hall, where the English hold their courts of justice. 
It gave me some surprise to find my friend engaged in a lawsuit, but 
more so when he informed me that it had been depending for seve- 
ral years. ^*IIow is it possible," cried I, '^foraman who knows 
the world to go to law ? I am well acquainted with the courts of 
justice in Cliina ; they resemble rat-traps every one of them ; no- 
thing more easy than to get in, but to get out again is attended with 
some difficulty, and more cunning than rats are generally found to 
possess ! '• 

^'' Faith," rej^lied my friend, ^^ I should not have gone to law but 
that I was assured of success before I began. Things were presented 
to me in so alluring a light that I thought by barely declaring ni}'- 
self a candidate for the prize I had nothing more to do than to en- 
joy the fruits of the victory. Thus have I been Vi\}Q\\ the eve of an 
imaginary triumph every term these ten years ; have travelled forward 
with victory ever in my view but ever out of reach. However, at pre- 
sent I fancy we have hampered our antagonist in such a manner 
that without some unforeseen demur we shall this day lay him fairly 
on his back." 

''If things be so situated," cried I, ''I do not care if I attend you 
to the courts and partake of the pleasure of your success. But 
prithee, '" continued I, as we set forward, ''what reasons have you 
to think an affair at last concluded which has given so many for- 
mer disappointments?" ^' My laAvyer tells me," returned he, 
"that I have Salkeld and Ventris strong in my favor^ and that there 
are no less than fifteen cases in point." " I understand,'' said I, 
"those are two of your judges who have already declared their 
opinions." " Pardon me," replied my friend, "Salkeld and Ven- 
tris are lawyers who some hundred years ago gave their ojnnions on 
cases similar to mine. These opinions which make for me my lawyer 
is to cite, and those opinions which look another way are cited by 
the lawyer employed by my antagonist. As I observed, I have Sal- 
keld and Ventris for me, he has Coke and Hale for him, and he 
that has most opinions is most likely to carry his cause." "But 
where is the necessity," cried I, " of prolonging a suit by citing 
the oi)inions and reports of others, since the same good sense which 
determined lawyers in former ages may serve to guide your judges 
at this day ? They at that time gave their opinions only from the 
light of reason; your judges have the same light at present to direct 



Oliver Goldsmith. 245 

them, let me even add a greater, as in former ages there were many 
prejudices from wliich tlie present is happily free. If arguing from 
authorities be exploded from every other brancli of learning, why 
should it be particularly adhered to in this ? I plainly foresee 
how such a method of investigation must embarrass every suit, and 
even perplex the students ; ceremonies will be multiplied, formali- 
ties must increase, and more time will thus be spent in learning the 
arts of litigation than in the discovery of right." 

"I see," cries my friend, 'Hhat you are for a speedy administra- 
tion of justice, but all the world will grant that the more time that 
is taken up in considering any subject, the better it will be under- 
stood. Besides, it is the boast of an Englishman that his property 
is secure, and all the world will grant that a deliberate administra- 
tion of justice is the best way to secure his property. Why have we 
so many lawyers but to secure our property ? Why so many forma- 
lities but to secure our property ? Not less than one hundred thou- 
sand families live in opulence, elegance, and ease merely by securing 
our property." 

'* To embarrass justice," returned I, *^ by a multiplicity of laws, 
or to hazard it by a confidence in our judges, are, I grant, the oppo- 
site rocks on which legislative wisdom has ever split. In one case 
the client resembles that emperor who is said to have been suffo- 
cated with the bed-clothes which were only designed to keep him 
warm ; in the other, to that town which let the enemy take posses- 
sion of its walls in order to show the world how little they depended 
upon aught but courage for safety. But bless me, what numbers 
do I see here — all in black — how is it possible that half this multi- 
tude find employment I " ^^N'othing so easily conceived," returned 
my companion; ^' they live by watching each other. For instance, 
the catchpole watches the man in debt, the attorney watches the 
catchpole, the counsellor watches the attorney, the solicitor the 
counsellor, and all find sufficient employment." ^^I conceive you," 
interrupted I ; ''^they watch each other, but it is the client that 
pays them all for watching. It puts me in mind of a Chinese fable 
which is entitled, ' Five Animals at a Meal : ' 

*'*A grasshopper filled with dew was merrily singing under a 
shade ; a whangam that eats grasshoppers had marked it for its prey, 
and was just stretching forth to devour it ; a serpent that had for 
a long time fed only on whangam was coiled up to fasten on the 
whangam ; a yellow bird was just upon the wing to dart upon the 



246 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

serpent ; a hawk liad just stooped from above to seize the yellow 
bird. All were intent on their prey and unmindful of their danger ; 
so the whangam ate the grasshopper, the serpent ata the whangam, 
the yellow bird the serpent, and the hawk the yellow bird, w^hen, 
sousing from on high, a vulture gobbled up the hawk, grasshopper, 
wlumgam, and all in a moment.' '' 

I had scarcely finished my fable when the lawyer came to inform 
my friend that his case was jout off till another term, that money 
was wanted to retain, and that all the world was of opinion that 
the very next hearing would bring him off victorious. '^If so, 
then," cries my friend, "I believe it will be my wisest way to con- 
tinue the cause for another term, and in the meantime my friend 
here and I will go and see Bedlam." Adieu ! 



LETTER PEOM THE SAME TO THE SAME — CRITICISM IN" ENGLAI^D. 

I HAVE frequently admired the manner of criticising in China, 
where the learned are assembled in a body to judge of every new 
publication, to examine tlie merits of the work without knowing 
the circumstances of the author, and then to usher it into the w^orld 
with proper marks of respect or reprobation. 

In England there are no such tribunals erected; but if a man 
thinks proper to be a judge of genius, few will be at the pains to 
contradict his pretensions. If any choose to bo critics, it is but 
saying they are critics, and from that time forward they become 
invested with full power and authority over every caitiff who aims at 
^ their instruction or entertainment. 

As almost every member of society has by this means a vote in 
literary transactions, it is no way surprising to find the rich leading 
the way here as in other common concerns of life — to see them either 
bribing the numerous herd of voters by their interest, or browbeat- 
ing them by their authority. 

A great man says at his table that such a book *' is no bad thing." 
Immediately the praise is carried off by five flatterers to be dis- 
persed at twelve different coffee-houses, from whence it circulates, 
still improving as it proceeds, through forty-five houses wliere 
cheaper liquors arc sold ; from thence it is carried away by the honest 
tradesman to his own fireside, wliere tlie a]q)lause is eagerly caught 
up by his wife and children wlio have been long taught to regard his 



Oliver Goldsmith. 247 

jiidgmeiit as the standard of perfection. Thus when we have traced 
a wide-extended literary reputation up to its original source, we 
shall find it derived from some great man, Avho has, perhaps, received 
all his education and English from a tutor of Berne or a dancing- 
master of Picardy. 

The English are a people of good sense, and I am the more sur- 
prised to find them swayed in their opinions by men who often, from 
their very education, are incompetent judges. Men who, being 
always bred in affluence, see the world only on one side, are surely 
improper judges of human nature. They may indeed describe a 
ceremony, a pageant, or a ball ; but how can they pretend to dive 
into the secrets of the human heart, who have been nursed up only 
in forms, and daily behold nothing but the same insipid adulation 
smiling upon every face. Few of them have been bred in that best 
of schools, the school of adversity ; and, by what I can learn, fewer 
still have been bred in any school at all. 

From such a description one would think that a droning duke or 
a dowager duchess was not jDossessed of more just pretensions to 
taste than persons of less quality ; and yet whatever the one or the 
other may write or praise shall joass for perfection, without further 
examination. A nobleman has but to take a pen, ink, and paper, 
write away throuah three larsre volumes, and then sisfu his name to 
the title-page ; though the whole might have been before more dis- 
gusting than his own rent-roll, yet signing his name and title gives 
value to the deed, title being alone equivalent to taste, imagination, 
and genius. 

As soon as a piece, therefore, is published, the first questions 
are : Who is the author ? Does he keep a coach ? Where lies his 
estate ? What sort of a table does he keep ? If he happens to be 
poor and unqualified for such a scrutiny, he and his works sink into 
irremediable obscurity, and too late he finds that having fed upon 
turtle is a more ready way to fame than having digested Tully. 

The poor devil against whom fashion has set its face vainly 
alleges that he has been bred in every part of Europe where know- 
ledge was to be sold; that he has grown pale in the study of nature 
and himself. Ilis works may please upon the perusal, but his preten- 
sions to fame are entirely disreijarded. He is treated like a fiddler 
whose music, though liked, is not nuicli praised, because he lives by 
it ; while a gentleman performer, though the most wretched scaper 
alive, throws the audience into raptures. Tiie fiddler, indeed, may 



248 The Prose and Poetry of Irelaiid, 

in such a case console himself with thinking that while the other 
goes off with all the praise, he runs away with all the money ; but 
here the parallel drops ; for Avhile the nobleman triumphs in un- 
merited applause, the author by profession steals oS with — nothing. 
The poor, therefore, here, who draw their pens auxiliary to the 
laws of their country, must think themselves very happy if they find, 
not fame, but forgiveness ; and yet they are hardly treated ; for as 
every country grows more j^olite, the press becomes more useful, 
and writers become more necessary as readers are supposed to in- 
crease. In a polished society, that luan, though in rags, who has 
the power of enforcing virtue from the press, is of more real use 
than forty stupid brachmans, or bonzes, or guebres, though they 
preached never so often, never so loud, or never so long. That 
man, though in rags, who is capable of deceiving even indolence 
into wisdom, and professes amusement while he aims at reforma- 
tion, is more useful in refined society than twenty cardinals with 
all their scarlet, and tricked out in all the fopperies of scholastic 
finery. 



LETTER FROM THE SA:\IE TO THE SAMK — TIOW KIXGS REWARD. 

The princes of Europe have found out a manner of rewarding 
their subjects who have behaved Avell, by presenting them with 
about two yards of blue ribbon, which is w'orn about the shoulder. 
Thcv who are honored with this mark of distinction are called 
kniffhts, and the kinir himself is alwavs the head of the order. 
This is a very frugal method of recompensing the most imjoortant 
services, and it is very fortunate for kings that their subjects are 
satisfied with such trifling rewards. Should a nobleman happen to 
lose his leg in a battle, the king presents him with two yards of 
ribbon, and he is paid for the loss of his limb. Should an ambas- 
sador spend all his pat<?rnal fortune in sup2:)orting the honor of his 
country abroad, the l<ing jiresents him witli two yards of ribbon, 
which is to be considered as an equivalent to his estate. In short, 
while a European king has a yard of blue or green ribbon left, he 
need be under no npprehension of wanting statesmen, generals, and 
soldiers. 

I cannot sufficiently admire those kingdoms in which men with 
la"go patrimonial estates are willing thus to underfifo r(\il l^ardsliips 



Oliver Goldsmith. 249 

for empty favors. A person already possessed of a competent for- 
tune, who undertakes to enter the career of ambition, feels many 
real inconveniences from his station, while it procures him no real 
happiness that he was not possessed of before. He could eat, drink, 
and sleep before he became a courtier, as well, perhaps better, than 
when invested with his authority. He could command flatterers in 
a 2)rivate station as well as in his public capacity, and indulge at 
home every favorite inclination uncensured and unseen by the 
people. 

What real good, then, does an addition to a fortune already suf- 
ficient procure ? Not any. Could the great man, by having his 
fortune increased, increase also his appetites, then precedence might 
be attended Avith real amusement. 

Was he, by having his one thousand made two, thus enabled to 
enjoy two wives or eat two dinners, then, indeed, he might be ex- 
cused for undergoing some pain in order to extend the sphere of his 
enjoyment. But, on the contrary, he finds his desire for pleasure 
often lessen as he takes pains to be able to improve it ; and his 
ca})acity of enjoyment diminishes as his fortune happens to in- 
crease. 

Instead, therefore, of regarding the great with envy, I generally 
consider them with some share of compassion. I look upon tliem 
as a set of good-natured, misguided people, wlio are indebted to us 
and not to themselves for all the happiness they enjoy. For our 
])leasure, and not their own, they sweat under a cumbrous heap of 
finery ; for our joleasure the lackeyed train, the slow-parading pa- 
geant, with all the gravity of grandeur, moves in review. A single 
coat, or a single footman, answers all the purposes of the most indo- 
lent refinement as well ; and those who have twenty may be said 
to keep one for their own pleasure, and the other nineteen merely 
for ours. So true is the observation of Confucius, "' that we take 
greater pains to persuade others that we are happy than endeavor- 
ing to think so ourselves." 

But though this desire of being seen, of being made the subject 
of discourse, and of supporting the dignities of an exalted station, 
be troublesome enough to the ambitious, yet it is Avell for society 
that there are men thus willing to exchange ease and safety for danger 
and a ribbon. We lose nothing by their vanity, and it would be 
unkind to endeavor to deprive a child of its rattle. If a duke or a 
rnohess are willing to carry a long train for our entertainment, so 



250 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

much the worse for themselves; if tliey choose to exhibit in pubhc 
with a hundred lacke3^s and Mamehikes in their equipage for our 
entertainment, still so much the worse for themselves. It is the 
spectators alone who give and receive the pleasure; they, only the 
sweating figures that swell the pageant. 

A mandarin who took much pride in appearing with a number 
of jewels on every part of his robe was once accosted by an old, sly 
bonze, who, following him through several streets, and bowing 
often to the ground, thanked him for his jewels. '^What does he 
mean?" cried the mandarin. ^'Friend, I never gave thee any of 
my jewels." ^^]N"o," replied the other ; ^* but you have let me look 
at them, and that is all the use you can make of them yourself ; so 
there is no difference between us, except that you have the trouble 
of watching them, and that is an employment I don't much desire." 
Adieu I 



LETTER FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME — A GLAXCE AT WEST- 
MINSTER ABBEY. 

I AM just returned from Westminster Abbey, the place of sepul- 
ture for the philosophers, heroes, and kings of England. What a 
gloom do monumental inscriptions, and all the venerable remains of 
a deceased merit, inspire ! Imagine a temple, marked with the 
hand of antiquit}^ solemn as religious awe, adorned with all the 
magnificence of barbarous profusion, dim windows, fretted pillars, 
long colonnades, and dark ceilings. Think, then, what were my 
sensations at beins: introduced to such a scene. I stood in the 
midst of the temple and threw my eyes round on the walls, filled 
with the statues, the inscriptions, and the monuments of the dead. 

Alas ! I said to myself, how does pride attend the puny child of 
dust even to the grave ! Even, humble as I am, I possess more con- 
sequence in the present scene than the greatest hero of them all. 
They have toiled for an hour to gain a transient immortality, and 
are at length retired to the grave, where they have no attendant but 
the worm, none to flatter but the epitaph. 

As I was indulging such reflections, a gentleman dressed in 
black, perceiving me to be a stranger, came up, entered into conver- 
sation, and ])olitely offered to be my instructor and guide through 
the temple. ^^If any monument," said he, *^ should particularly 
excite your curiosity, I shall endeavor to satisfy your demands." I 



Oliver Goldsmith. 251 

accepted with thanks the gentleman's offer, adding that ^'I was 
come to observe the policy, the wisdom, and the justice of the Eng- 
lish in conferring rewards n^^on deceased merit. If adulation like 
this (continued I) be properly conducted, as it can no ways in- 
jure those who are flattered, so it may be a glorious incentive to 
those who are now capable of enjoying it. It is the duty of every 
good government to turn this monumental joride to its own advan- 
tage ; to become strong in the aggregate from the weakness of the 
individual. If none but the truly great have a place in this awful 
repository, a temple like this will give the finest lessons of morality, 
and be a strong incentive to true merit." The man in black seemed 
impatient at my observations, so I discontinued my remarks, and 
we Avalked on together to take a view of every particular monument 
in order as it lay. 

As the eye is naturally caught by the finest objects, I could not 
avoid being particularly curious about one monument which ap- 
peared more beautiful than the rest. ''That," said I to my 
guide, ^' I take to be the tomb of some very great man. By the 
peculiar excellence of the workmanship and the magnificence of tiie 
design, this must be a trophy raised to the memory of some king 
who has saved his country from ruin, or lawgiver who has reduced 
his fellow-citizens from anarchy into just subjection.*' ^'It is not 
requisite," replied my companion, smiling, ^^to have such qualifica- 
tions in order to have a very fine monument here. More humble 
abilities will suffice." ^' What ! I suppose, then, the gaining two or 
three battles or the taking half-a-score of towns is thought a suffi- 
cient qualification?" '^Gaining battles or taking towns," replied 
tlie man in black, ^^ may be of service ; but a gentleman may have a 
verv fine monument here without ever seeino^ a battle or a sieo-e.-' 
••' This, then, is the monument of some j^oet, I presume — of one 
whose wit has gained him immortality?" ^^No, sir," replied my 
guide ; ^* the gentleman who lies here never made verses, and as for 
wit, he despised it in others, because he had none himself." ^^ Prav, 
tell me, then, in a word," said I peevishly, '^ what is the great man 
who lies here particularly remarkable for ?" '-'' Eemarkable, sir !" 
said my companion ; ^*why, sir, the gentleman that lies here is re- 
markable, very remarkable — for a tomb in "Westminster Abbey." 
'•' But, head of my ancestors ! how has he got here ? I fancy he 
could never bribe the guardians of the temple to give him a place. 
Should he not be ashamed to be seen among company where even 



252 The Prose and Poehy of Ireland, 

moderate merit would look like infamy?" '^I suppose," replied 
the man in black, *' the gentleman was rich, and his friends — it is 
usual in such a case — told him he was great. He readily believed 
them. The guardians of the temple, as they got by the self-delusion, 
were ready to believe him too ; so he paid his money for a fine 
monument, and the workman, as you see, has made him one of tlie 
most beautiful. Think not, however, that this gentleman is singu- 
lar in his desire of being buried among the great ; tliere are several 
others in the temple who, hated and shunned by the great while 
^live, have come here fully resolved to keep them company now 
tliey are dead." 

As we walked along to a particular part of the temple, *^ There," 
says the gentleman, pointing with his finger, ^' that is the poets' 
corner ; there you see the monuments of Shakspeare, and Milton, 
and Prior, and Drayton." ^' Drayton ! " I replied; " I never heard of 
him before ; but I have been told of one Pope; is he there ? " ^' It 
is time enough," replied my guide, ^^ these hundred years; he is not 
long dead ;♦ people have not done hating him yet." *' Strange;" 
cried I, "can any be found to hate a man whose life was wholly 
spent in entertaining and instructing his fellow-creatures ? " " Yes," 
says my guide, " they hate him for that very reason. There are a set 
of men called answerers of books, who take upon them to watch the 
rejoublic of letters, and distribute reputation by the sheet. They 
somewhat resemble the eunuchs in a seraglio, who are incai:)able of 
giving pleasure themselves, and hinder those that would. These 
answerers have no other employment but to cry out dunce and 
scribbler ; to praise the dead and revile the living ; to grant a man 
of confessed abilities some small share of merit ; to applaud twenty 
blockheads in order to gain the reputation of candor, and to revile 
the moral character of the man whose writing they cannot injure. 
Such wretches are kept in pay by some mercenary bookseller, or, 
more frequently, the bookseller himself takes this dirty work off 
their hands, as all that is required is to be very abusive and 
very dull. Every poet of any genius is sure to find such enemies. 
He feels, though he seems to despise, their malice ; they make him 
miserable here, and in the pursuit of empty fame at last he gains 
solid anxiety." 

*^ Has this been the case with every poet I see here ?" cried I. 
** Yes, with every mother's son of them," replied he; ^^ except he 
happened to be born a mandarin. If he has much money, he may 



Oliver Goldsmith. 253 

buy reputation from your book-answerers, as well as a monument 
from the guardians of the temple." 

^'But are there not some men of distinguished taste, as in 
China, who are willing to patronize men of merit, and soften tlie 
rancor of malevolent dulness ? *' 

*^'I own there are many,'' replied the man in black ; '^but, alas ! 
sir, the book-answerers crowd about them, and call themselves the 
writers of books, and the patron is too indolent to distinguish ; 
thus 23oets are kej)t at a distance, while their enemies eat up all 
tlieir rewards at the mandarin's table." 

Leaving this part of the temple, we made up to an iron gate, 
through which my companion told me ^ve were to joass in order to 
see the monuments of the kings. Accordingly I marched up with- 
oul: further ceremony, and was going to enter, when a person who 
held the gate in his hand told me I must pay first. I was surprised 
at such a demand, and asked the man whether the people of Eng- 
land kept a bliow 9 whether the paltry sum he demanded was not a 
national reproach ? whether it was not more to the iionor of the 
country to let their magnificence or their antiquities be openlv 
seen than thus meanly to tax a curiosity which tended to their own 
honor ? ^^ As for your questions," replied the gate-kee2)er, " to be 
sure they may be very right, because I don't understand them ; but 
as for that threepence, I farm it from one, who rents it from 
another, who hires it from a third, who leases it from the guardians 
of the temple, and we all must live." I ex]3ected, upon paying 
here, to see something extraordinary, since what I had seen for 
nothing filled me with so much surprise ; but in this I was dis- 
appointed. There was little more within than black coffins, rusty 
armor, tattered standards, and some few slovenly figures in wax. 
I was sorry I had paid, but I comforted myself by considering it 
would be my last payment. A person attended us, who, without 
once blushing, told a hundred lies ; he talked of a lady who died 
by pricking her finger ; of a king with a golden head, and twenty 
such pieces of absurdity. *^Look ye there, gentlemen," says he, 
pointing to an old oak chair, ^' there's a curiosity for ye. In that 
chair the kings of England were crowned ; you see also a stone un- 
derneath, and that stone is Jacob's pillow." I could see no curiosity 
cither in the oak chair or the stone. Could I indeed behold one of 
the old kings of England seated in this, or Jacob's head laid 
upon the other, there might be something curious in the sight; 



2 54 1^^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

but in the present case there was no more reason for my surprise 
than if I should pick a stone from their streets, and call it a 
curiosity, merely because one of the kings happened to tread upon 
it as he passed in a procession. 

From hence our conductor led us through several dark walls and 
winding ways, uttering lies, talking to himself, and flourishing a 
wand Avhich he held in his hand. He reminded me of the black 
magicians of Kobi. After we had been almost fatigued with a 
variety of objects, he at last desired me to consider attentively a 
certain suit of armor, which seemed to show nothing remarkable. 
''^ This armor," said he, ^^M^elonged to General Monk." ''Very 
surprising that a general should wear armor I " '^And pray," 
added he, '' observe this cap, this is General Monk's ca]).*' '^ Very 
strange indeed, very strange, that a general should have a cap also ! 
Pray, friend, what might this cap have cost originally ? " ^' That, 
sir,"' says be, '• I don't know ; but this cap is all the wages I have 
for ni}' trouble." *' A very small recompense, truly," said I. *^ ^ot 
so very small," rejolied he, ^^for every gentleman puts some money 
into it, and I spend the money." ^^ "What, more money I Still more 
monev I *• ^^Everv o^entleman o-ives something:, sir." ''I'll orive 
thee nothing," returned I; *^''the guardians of the temple should 
pay your wages, friend, and not permit you to squeeze thus from 
every spectator. When we pay our money at the door to see a 
show, we never give more as we arc going out. Sure the guardians 
of the temjile can never think they get enough. Show me the 
gate; if I stay longer, I may probably meet with more of those 
ecclesiastical beggars. " 

Thus leaving the temple precipitately, I returned to my lodgings, 
in order to ruminate over what was great and to despise what was 
mean in the occurrences of the day. 



LETTER FROM LIEN" CHI ALTAXGI TO HINGPO, BY THE AVAY OF 
MOSCOW — FORTUNE AND AVHANG, THE MILLER. 

The Europeans are themselves blind who describe Fortune with- 
out sio:ht. Xo flrst-rate beautv ever had liner eves or saw more 
clearly. They who have no other trade but seeking their fortune 
need iiever hope to find her; coquette-like she flies from her close 



Oliver Goldsmith. 255 

pursuers, and at last fixes on the plodding mechanic who stays at 
home and minds his business. 

I am amazed how men can call her blind when by the company 
she keeps she seems so very discerning. Wherever you see a gam- 
ing-table, be very sure Fortune is not there ; wherever you see a 
house with the doors open, be very sure Fortune is not there ; when 
you see a man whose pocket-holes are laced with gold, be satisfied 
Fortune is not there ; wherever you see a beautiful woman goou- 
natured and obliging, be convinced Fortune is never there. In 
short, she is ever seen accompanying industry, and as often trundling 
a wheelbarrow as lolling in a coach and six. 

If you would make Fortune your friend, or, to personize her no 
longer, if you desire, my son, to be rich and have money, be more 
eager to save than to acquire. When people say, *' Money is to be got 
here and money is to be got there,"' take no notice ; mind your own 
business ; stay where you are and secure all you can get, without 
stirring. When you hear that your neighbor has picked up a purse 
of gold in the street, never run out into the same street looking 
about you in order to pick up such another ; or, when you are in- 
formed that he has made a fortune in one branch of business, never 
change your own in order to be his rival. Do not desire to be rich 
all at once, but patiently add farthing to farthing. Perhaps you 
despise the petty sum ; and yet they who want a farthing and have 
no friend that will lend tbem it think farthings very good things. 
AYhang, the foolish miller, when he wanted a farthing in his dis- 
tress, found that no friend would lend, because they knew he want- 
ed. Did you ever read the story of Whang in our books of Chinese 
learning; he who, despising small sums and grasping at all, lost 
even what he had ? 

Whang, the miller, was naturally avaricious ; nobody loved monev 
better than he, or more respected those that had it. When i)cople» 
Avould talk of a rich man in company, Whang would r,av, I 
know him very well ; he and I have been long acquainted; he and 
I are intimate ; he stood for a child of mine. But if ever a poor 
man was mentioned he had not the least knowledge of the man ; 
he might be very well for aught he knew, but he was not fond of 
many acquaintances, and loved to choose his company. 

A\ hang, however, with all his eagerness for riches, was in reality 
poor ; he had nothing but the profits of his mill to support him ; 
but though these were small, they were certain. While his mill 



256 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

stood and went he was sure of eating, and his frugality was such 
that he every day laid some money by, M'hich he would at intervals 
count and contemplate with much satisfaction. Yet still his ac- 
quisitions were not equal to his desires — he only found himself 
above want, whereas he desired to be possessed of affluence. 

One day as he was indulging these wishes he was informed that 
a neighbor of his had found a jian of money underground, having 
dreamed of it three nights running before. These tidings were 
daggers to the heart of poor Whang. ^^Here am I," says he, " toil- 
ing and moiling from morning till night for a few paltry farthings, 
while ISicighbor Hunks only goes quietly to bed and dreams himself 
into thousands before morning. Oh I that I could dream like him. 
With what pleasure would I dig round the pan ; how sly Avould I 
carry it home; not even my Avife should see me; and then, Oh I the 
pleasure of thrusting one's hand into a heap of gold up to the 
elbow." 

Such reflections only served to make the miller unhappy ; he dis- 
continued his former assiduity, he was quite disgusted with small 
gains, and his customers began to forsake him. Every day he re- 
peated the wish and every night laid himself down to dream. For- 
tune, that was for a long time unkind, at last, how^ever, seemed to 
smile upon his distresses, and indulged him with the Avished-for 
vision, lie dreamed that under a certain part of the foundation of 
his mill there was concealed a monstrous pan of gold and diamonds, 
buried deep in the ground and coA'ered Avith a large, flat stone. He 
rose up, thanked the stars, that were at last pleased to take i:)ity on 
his sufferings, and concealed his good luck from every jierson, as is 
usual in money dreams, in order to haA'e the vision repeiited the 
two succeeding nights, by Avhich he should be certain of its vera- 
city. His Avishes in this also Avcre answered, he still dreamed of 
the same pan of money in the very same place. 

Xow, therefore, it Avas past a doubt; so, getting up early the 
third morning, he rcjoairs alone, Avitli a mattock in his hand, to the 
mill, and began to undermine that part of the Avail Avhich the 
vision directed. The first omen of success that he met av^s a 
broken mug ; digging still deeper, he turns up a house-tile, quite 
new and entire. At last, after much digging, he came to the broad, 
flat stone, but then so large that it Avas beyond one man's strength 
to remoAT it. *' Here,'' cried he in raptures to himself, 'Miere it 
is ; under this stone there is room for a very large pan of diamonds 



Oliver GoldsTnith. 257 

indeed. I must e'en go home to my wife and tell her the whole 
affair, and get her to assist me in turning it up. " Away, therefore, 
he goes and acquaints his wife with every circumstance of their 
good fortune. Her raptures on this occasion may easily be im- 
agined, she flew round his neck and embraced him in an agony of 
joy ; but those transports, however, did not delay their eagerness to 
know the exact sum. Eeturning, therefore, speedily together to the 
place where Whang had been digging, there they found — not in- 
deed the expected treasure, but the mill, their only support, under- 
mined and fallen. Adieu ! 



GOLDSMITH'S LETTERS. 

TO HIS MOTHER AT BALLYMAH02!f. 

1751. 

My dear Mother : If you will sit down and calmly listen to 
what I say, you shall be fully resolved in every one of those many 
questions you have asked me. I went to Cork and converted my 
horse, which you prize so much higher than Fiddleback, into cash, 
took my passage in a shij) bound for America, and, at the same 
time, paid the captain for my freight and all the other expenses of 
my voyage. But it so happened that the wind did not answer for 
three weeks ; and you know, mother, that I could not command the 
elements. My misfortune w^as that when the wind served I hap- 
pened to be with a party in the country, and my friend the captain 
never enquired after me, but set sail with as much indifference as if 
I had been on board. The remainder of my time I employed in the 
city and it environs, viewing everything curious ; and you know no 
one can starve while he has money in his pocket. 

Reduced, however, to my last two guineas, I began to think of 
my dear mother and frien,ds whom I had left behind me, and so 
bought that generous beast, Fiddleback, and bade adieu to Cork 
with only five shillings in my pocket. This, to be sure, was but a 
scanty allowance for man and horse toAvards a journey of above a 
Inindred miles ; but I did not despair, for I knew I must find 
friends on the road. 

I recollected particularly an old and faithful acquaintance I made 
at college, who liad often and earnestly pressed me to sjoend a sum- 
mer with him, and lie lived but eisfht miles from Cork. This cir- 



258 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland, 

cii instance of viciiiity lie would expatiiite on to me with peculiar 
emphasis. ''We shall," says he, '-enjoy the delights of both city 
and country, and you shall command my stable and my purse." 

Iloweyer, upon the w^ay I met a poor woman all in tears, who told 
me her husband had been arrested for a debt he was not able to pay, 
and that his eight children must now starve, bereaved as they were 
of his industry, which had been their only sup23ort. I thought my- 
self at home, being not far from good friend's house, and therefore 
parted with a moiety of all my store ; and pray, mother, ought I 
not to have given her the other half-crown, for what she got would 
be of little use to her ? However, I soon arrived at the mansion of 
my affectionate friend, guarded by the vigilance of a huge mastiff, 
who flew at me and would have torn me to pieces but for the assist- 
ance of a woman, whose countenance was not less grim than that of 
the dog; yet she with great humanity relieved me from the jaws of 
this Cerberus, and was prevailed on to carry up my name to her 
master. 

Without suffering me to wait long, my old friend, who was then 
recovering from a severe fit of sickness, came down in his night-cap^ 
night-gown, and slippers, and embraced me with the most cordial 
welcome, showed me in, and, after giving me a history of his indis- 
position, assured me that he considered himself peculiarly fortunate 
in having under his roof the man he most loved on earth, and 
whose stay with him must, above all things, contribute to his per- 
fect recovery. I now repented sorely I had not given the poor wo- 
man the other half-crown, as I thought all my bills of humanity 
would be punctually answered by this worthy man. I revealed to 
him my whole soul ; I opened to him all my distresses ; and freely 
owned that I had but one half-crown in my pocket ; but that now, 
like a ship after weathering out the storm, I considered myself se- 
cure in a safe and hospitable harbor. He made no answer, but 
walked about the room rubbing his hands as one in deep study. 
This I imputed to the sympathetic feelings of a tender heart, which 
increased my esteem for him, and, as that increased, I gave the 
most favorable interpretation to his silence. I construed it into 
delicacy of sentiment, as if he dreaded to wound my pride by ex- 
jiressing his commiseration in words, leaving his generous conduct 
to speak for itself. 

It now apj)roached six o'clock in the evening, and as I had eaten 
no breakfast, and as my spirits were raised, my appetite for dinner 



Oliver Goldsmith, 259 

grew uncommonly keen. At length the old woman came into the 
room with two plates, one spoon, and a dirty cloth, which she laid 
upon the table. This appearance, without increasing my spirits, did 
not diminish my appetite. My protectress soon returned with a 
small bowl of sago, a small porringer of sour milk, a loaf of stale 
brown bread, and the heel of an old cheese all over crawling with 
mites. My friend apologized that his illness obliged him to live on 
slops, and that better fare was not in the house ; observing, at the 
same time, that a milk diet was certainly the most healthful ; and 
at eight o'clock he again recommended a regular life, declaring that 
for his part he would lie doivn witli tlie lamh and rise with the larh. 
My hunger was at this time so exceedingly sharp that I wished for 
another slice of the loaf, but was obliged to go to bed without even 
that refreshment. 

This Lenten entertainment I had received made me resolve to de- 
part as soon as possible ; accordingly next morning, when I spoke of 
going, he did not oppose my resolution ; he rather commended my 
design, added some very sage counsel upon the occasion. ^^ To be 
sure," said he, "i\\Q longer you stay away from your mother the 
more you will grieve her and your other friends, and possibly they 
are already afflicted at hearing of this foolish expedition you have 
made." Notwithstanding all this, and without any hope of soften- 
ing such a sordid heart, I again renewed the tale of my distress, and 
asking ^' how he thought I could travel above a hundred miles upon 
one half-crown ? " I begged to borrow a single guinea, which I 
assured him should be repaid with thanks. "^ And you know, sir," 
said I, *'it is no more than I have often done for you." To which 
he firmly answered, '' Why, look you, Mr. Goldsmith, that is neither 
here nor there ; I have paid you all you ever lent me, and this sick- 
ness of mine has left me bare of cash. But I have bethought my- 
self of a conveyance for you ; sell your horse and I will furnish you 
with a much better one to ride on." I readily grasped at this pro- 
posal, and begged to see the nag ; on Avhich he led me to his bed- 
chamber, and from under the bed he pulled out a stout oak stick. 
*^Here he is," said he ; 'Hake this in your hand, and it will carry 
you to your mother with more safety than such a horse as you ride.'' 
I was in doubt, when I got it into my hand, whether I should not, 
in the first place, apply it to his pate ; but a rap at the street door 
made the wretch fly to it, and when I returned to the parlor he in- 
troduced me, as if nothing of the kind had happened, to the gentle- 



26o The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

man who entered, as Mr. Goldsmith, his most ingenious and worthy- 
friend, of whom he had so often heard him speak with rapture. I 
could scarcely compose myself ; and must have betrayed indignation 
in my mien to the stranger, who was a counsellor-at-law in the 
neighborhood, a man of engaging aspect and polite address. 

After spending an hour, he asked my friend and me to dine with 
him at his house. This I declined at first, as I wished to have no 
further communication with my hospitable friend ; but at the soli- 
citation of both I at last consented, determined as I was by two 
motives — one, that I was prejudiced in favor of the looks and man- 
ner of the counsellor ; and the other, that I stood in need of a com- 
fortable dinner. And there, indeed, I found eTerything that I 
could wish, abundance without profusion, and elegance Avithout 
affectation. In the evening, when my old friend, who had eaten 
very plentifully at his neighbor's table, but talked again of lying 
down with the lamb, made a motion to me for retiriug, our generous 
host requested I should take a bed with him, upon which I j^lainly 
told my old friend that he might go home and take care of the 
horse he had given me, but that I should never re-enter his doors. 
He went away with a laugh, leaving me to add this to the other 
little things the counsellor already knew of his plausible neighbor. 

And now, my dear mother, I found sufficient to reconcile me to 
all my follies ; for here I spent three whole days. The counsellor 
had two sweet girls, his daughters, who played enchantiugly on 
the harpsichord ; and yet it was but a melancholy j)leasure I felt the 
first time I heard them : for that beinsr the first time also that either 
of them had touched the instrument since their mother's death, I 
saw the tears in silence trickle down their father's cheeks. I every 
day endeavored to go away, but every day was pressed and obliged 
to stay. On my goiug, the counsellor offered me his j)urse, with a 
horse and servant to convey me home ; but the latter I declined, 
and only took a guinea to bear my necessary expenses on the road. 

- Oliver Goldsmith. 



TO ROBEET BRYA2s"T0X, ESQ., AT BALLTMAHOX, IRELAND. 

Edinburgh, Sept. 26, 1753. 
My Dear Bob : How many good excuses (and you know I was 
ever good at an excuse) might I call u^^ to vindicate my j^ast shame- 
ful silence ! I might tell how I wrote a long letter on mv first 



Oliver Goldsmith. 261 

coming hither, and seem yastly angry at my not receiving an an- 
swer. I might allege that business (with business you know 1 was 
alwavs pestered) had never given me time to finger a pen — but I 
suppress these and twenty more equally plausible, and. as easily in- 
vented, since they might be attended with a slight inconvenience of 
being known to be lies. Let me then s]3eak truth : an hereditary- 
indolence (I have it from the mother's side) has hitherto prevented 
my writing to you, and still prevents my writing at least twenty- 
five letters more due to my friends in Ireland. Xo turnspit dog 
gets uj) into his wheel with more reluctance than I sit down to 
write, yet no dog ever loved the roast meat he turns better than I 
do him I now address. Yet what shall I say now I've entered ? 
Shall I tire you with a description of this unfruitful country, where 
I must lead you over their hills all brown with heath, or their val- 
leys scarce able to feed a rabbit ? Man alone seems to be the only 
creature who has arrived to the natural size in this poor soil. Every 
part of the cotintry presents the same dismal landscape. Xo grove 
nor brook lend their music to cheer the stranger or make the in- 
habitants forget their poverty; yet with all these disadvantages, 
enough to call him down to humility, a Scotchman is one of the 
proudest things alive. The poor have pride ever ready to relieve 
them; if mankind should happen to despise them, they are masters 
of their own admiration, and that they can plentifully bestow upon 
themselves. 

From their pride and poverty, I take it, results one advantage 
this country enjoys — namely, the gentlemen here are much better 
bred than amongst us. Xo such characters here as our fox-hunters, 
and they have exjjressed great surprise when I informed them 
that some men in Ireland of £1,000 a year spend their whole lives 
in running after a hare and drinking to be drunk ; and truly, if 
such a being, equipped in his hunting- dress, came among a circle 
of Scotch o:entrv, thev wotild behold him with the same astonish- 
ment that a countryman would King George on horseback. 

The men here have generally high cheek-bones, and are lean and 
swarthy, fond of action, dancing in particular. Though now I 
mention dancing, let me say something of their balls, which are 
very frequent here. When a stranger enters the dancing-hall, he 
sees one end of the room taken up with the ladies, who sit dismaUy 
in a group by themselves. On the other end stand their pensive 
partners that are to be, but no more intercourse between the sexes 



262 The Prose a7id Poetry of Irelafid, 

than there is between two conntries at war ; the ladies, indeed, may 
ocjle and the crentlemeu sisfh, but an embarg-o is hiid on anv closer 
commerce. At length, to interrapt hostilities, the lady directress 
or intendant, or what you will, pitches on a gentleman and lady to 
walk a minuet, which they perform with a formality that ap- 
jiroaches to despondence. After five or six couple have thus 
walked the gauntlet, all stand np to country dances, each gentle- 
man furnished with a partner from the aforesaid lady directress ; 
so they dance much and say nothing, and thus concludes our 
assembly. I told a Scotch gentleman that such profound silence 
resembled the ancient procession of the Eoman matrons in honor 
of Ceres, and the Scotch gentleman, told me (and faith, I belicTe 
he was right.) that I was a very great pedant, for my pains. 

Xow I am come to the ladies, and to show that I love Scotland and 
eyerything that belongs to so charming a countiy, I insist on it, and 
will give him leave to break my head that denies it, that the Scotch 
ladies are ten thousand times handsomer and liner than the Irish. 
To be sure, now, I see your sisters Betty and Peggy vastly surprised 
at my partiality, but tell them flatly I don't value them, or their 

fine skins, or eyes, or good sense, or , a potato : for I say it, and 

will maintain it, and as a conyincing proof (I'm in a very great 
passion) of what I assert, the Scotch ladies say it themselves. But 
to be less serious, where will you find a language so pretty become 
a pretty mouth as the broad Scotch ? and the women here speak it 
in its highest purity : for instance, teach one of their young ladies 
to pronounce, '*Whoar wull I gong?" with a becoming wideness- 
of mouth, and 1*11 lay my life they will wound every hearer. 

"W'e have no such character here as a coquette ; but, alas I how many 
envious prudes I Some days ago I walked into my Lord Kilcoubry's 
(don't be surprised, my lord is but a glover), when the Duchess of 
Hamilton" (that fau' who sacrificed her beauty to ambition, and 
her inward peace to a title and gilt equipage.) passed by in her 
chariot : her battered htisband, or, more properly, the guardian of 
her charms, sat by her side. Straight envy began, in the shape of no 
less than three ladies who sat with me, to find faults in her faultless 
form. ''For my part," says the first, ••I think what I always 
thought, that the duchess has too much red in her complexion." 
"Madam, I'm of your opinion," says the second; "I think her 
face has a palish cast too much on the delicate order." '*'And 

33 Elizabeth Gnnning, the most beautiftil •woman in the •world- 



Oliver Goldsmith, 263 

let me tell you/" adds the third lady, whose mouth was puckered 
up to the size of an issue, '^that the duchess has fine lips, but she 
wants a mouth." At this ererv lady drew up her mouth as if aoino 
to pronounce the letter P. 

But how ill, my Bob, does it become me to ridicule women with 
whom I have scarce any correspondence. There are, 'tis certain, 
handsome women here ; and 'tis as certain there are handsome men 
to keep them company. An ugly and a poor man is society for him- 
self, and such society the world lets me enjoy in great abundance. 
Fortune has given you circumstances, and nature a person to look 
charming in the eyes of the fair world. Xor do I envy, my dear 
Bob, such blessings, while I may sit down and laugh at the world 
and at myself, the most ridiculous object in it. But I begin to 
grow splenetic, and perhaps the fit may continue till I receive an 
answer to this. I know you can't send news from B[ally]mahon, 
but such as it is, send it all ; everything you wi'ite will be agreeable 
and entertaining to me. Has George Conway put up a sign yet ? 
or John Finecly left off drinking drams ? or Tom Allen got a new 
wig ? But I leave to your own choice what to write. "While 
Oliver Goldsmith lives, know you have a friend. 

P.S. — Give my sincere regards (not compliments, do you mind,) 
to your agreeable family, and give my service to my mother if you 
see her ; for, as you express it in Ireland, I have a sneaking kind- 
ness for her still. 

Direct to me , Student in Physic, in Edinburgh. 



TO THE EEY. THOMAS COXTAEIXE. 

Close of 1753. 
Mt Dear Uxcle : After having spent two winters in Edin- 
burgh, I now prepare to go to France the 10th of next February. 
I have seen all that this country can exliibit in the medical way, and 
therefore intend to visit Paris, where the great Mr. Farhein, Petit, 
and Du Hammel de Monceau instruct their pupils in all the branches 
of medicine. They speak French, and consecjuently I have much, 
the advantage of most of my countrymen, as I am ^lerfectly ac- 
quainted with that language, and few who leave Ireland are so. 



26.| The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland. 

SiDce I am upon so pleasiug atopic as self-a]3plause, give me leave 
to sav that the circle of science which I have ntn through before I 
undertook the study of physic is not only tiseful, but absolutely 
necessaiy to' the making of a skilfttl physician. Such sciences en- 
large oiu' understanding and sharpen our sagacity ; and what is a 
practitioner without both but an empiric, for never yet was a dis- 
• order found entirely the same in two patients. A quack, unable to 
distinguish the j)artictilaritie3 in each disease, prescribes at a ven- 
ture; if he finds such a disorder may be called by the general name 
of fever, for instance, he has a set of remedies which he apjolies to 
cure it, nor does he desist till his medicines are run out or his patient 
has lost his life. But the skilful j^hysician distinguislies the symp- 
toms, manures the steiility of nature or prunes her luxuriance ; nor 
does he depend so mticli on the efficacy of medicines as on their 
proper application. I shall spend this spring and summer in Paris, 
and the besfinnins: of next winter sfo to Levden. The 2:reat Albinus 
is still alive there, and "twill be j^roper to go, though only to have 
it said that we have studied in so famous a university. 

As I shall not have another opjDortunity of receiving money fi'om 
your bounty till my return to Ireland, so I have drawn for the last 
sum that I hope I shall ever troitble you for — 'tis £20. And now, 
dear sir, let me here acknowledge the humility of the station in 
which you f otmd me ; let me tell how 1 was despised by most and 
hateful to myself. Poverty, hopeless j)ovei1:y. was my lot, and 
Melancholy was beginning to make me her own. AVhen you — but I 
stop here to enquire how your health goes on. How does my dear 
Cousin Jenny, and has she recovered her late complaint ? How 
does my poor Jack Goldsmith ? I fear his disorder is of such a na- 
ture as he won't easily recover. I wish, my dear sir, yoci wotild 
make me happy by another letter before I go abroad, for there I 
shall hardly hear from you. I shall carry Just £33 to France, with 
good store of clothes, shirts, etc., etc., and that with economy will 
serve. 

I have spent more than a fortnight every second day at the Duke 
of Hamilton*^, but it seems they like me more as a jeder than as 
a companion, so I disdained so servile an employment ; 'twas un- 
worthy my calling as a physician. 

I have nothing new to add fi'om this country, and I beg, dear sir, 
you will excuse this letter, so filled with egotism. I wish yott may 



Olive?^ Goldsmith. 265 

be reveuged on me by sending an answer filled with nothing bnt 
an account of Yourself. I am, dear uncle, your most devoted, 

Oliver Goldsmith. 
Give my — liow shall I express it ? Give my earnest love to Mr. 
and Mrs. Lawder. 



TO THE EEV. THOMAS COXTAEIXE. 

Letdex, April or May, 1T54. 

Dear Sir : I suppose by this time I am accused of either neglect 
or ingratitude, and my silence imputed to my usual slowness of 
wi'iting. But believe me, sir, when I say that till now I had not 
an opportunity of sitting down with that ease of mind which writ- 
ing required. You may see by the top of the letter that I am at 
Leyden, but of my journey hither you must be informed. Some 
time after the receij)t of your last I embarked for Bordeaux, on 
board a Scotch ship called the >S7. Andreics, Captain John Wall, 
master. The ship made a tolerable ap^oearance, and, as another in- 
ducement, I was let to know that six agreeable passengers were to 
be my company. Well, we were but two days at sea when a storm 
drove us into a city of England called Xewcastle-upon-Tyne. We 
all went ashore to refresh us after the fatigue of our voyage. Seven 
men and I were one day on shore, and on the following evening, as 
we were all very merry, the room door bursts open, enter a sergeant 
and twelve grenadiers with their bayonets screwed, and puts us all 
under the king's arrest. It seems my company were Scotchmen in 
the French service, and had been in Scotland to enlist soldiers for 
the French army. I endeavored all I could to prove my innocence ; 
however, I remained in prison with the rest a fortnight, and with 
difficulty got off even then. Dear sir, keep this all a secret, or at 
least say it was for debt, for if it were once known at the university, 
I should hardly get a degree. But hear how Providence interposed 
in my favor ; the ship was gone on to Bordeatix before I got from 
prison, and was wrecked at the mouth of the Garonne and every 
one of the crew were di'owned. It happened the last great storm. 
There was a ship at that time read}' for Holland ; I embarked, and 
in nine davs, thank mv God I I arrived safe at Rotterdam, whence 
I travelled by land to Leyden, and whence I now write. 

You may expect some account of this country, and though I am 
not well qualified for such an undertaking, yet shall I endeavor to 



266 The Pi'ose and Poetry of Ircla7id. 

satisfy some jmrt of your expectations. Xo thing sui-prised me more 
than the books every day published descriptive of the manners of 
this country. Any young man who takes it into his head to pub- 
lish his travels visits the countries he intends to describe, passes 
through them with as much inatteution as his valet-de-chambre, 
and consequently, not having a fund himself to fill a volume, he 
applies to those who wrote before him, and gives tis the manners of 
a country, not as he must have seen them, but such as they might 
have been fifty years before. The modern Dutchman is quite a 
different creature from him of former times : he in evervthinor imi- 
tat^s a Frenchman but in his easy, disengaged air, which is the re- 
sult of keeping polite company. The Dutchman is vastly ceremo- 
nious, and is, perhaps, exactly what a Frenchman might have been 
in the reign of Louis XTT. Such are the better bred. But the 
downright Hollander is one of the oddest figures in nature ; ujDon a 
head of lank hair he wears a half-cocked, naiTow hat, laced with 
black ribbon: no coat, but seven waistcoats and nine pairs of 
breeches, so that his hips reach almost up to his arm-pits. This 
well-clothed vegetable is now fit to see company or make love. But 
what a pleasing creature is the object of his appetite ? Why, she 
wears a large fur cap with a deal of Flanders lace, and for every 
pair of breeches he carries she puts on two petticoats. 

A Dutch lady bums nothing about her jDhlegmatic admirer but his 
tobacco. Ton must know, sir, every woman carries in her hand a 
stove with coals in it, which, when she sits, she snusrs under her 
petticoats, and at this chimney dozing Strephon lights his pipe. I 
take it that this continual smokino: is what ofives the man the ruddv, 
healthful complexion he generally wears by draining his superfluous 
moistui<?, while the woman, dej^rived of this amusement, overflows 
with such viscidities as tint the complexion and give that jmle- 
ness of visage which low, fenny grounds and moist air conspire to 
cause. A Dutchwoman and Scotch will well bear an opposition. 
The one is pale and fat, the other lean and ruddy : the one walks 
as if she were straddling after a go-cart, and the other takes too 
masculine a stride. I shall not endeavor to deprive either country 
of its share of beaury. but must say that of all objects on this earth 
an Ensrlish farmers dauorhters is most charmins:. Everv woman 
there is a complete beaut v, while the higher class of women want 
many of the requisites to make them even tolerable. Then* plea- 
sures here are verv dull, though verv various. You mav smoke, vou 



Oliver Goldsmith. 267 

mav cloze, you may go to the Italian comedy, as good an amusement 
as either of the former. This entertainment always hrings in Har- 
lequin, who is generally a magician, and, in consequence of his dia- 
bolical art, 2)erforms a thousand tricks on the rest of the persons in 
the drama, who are all fools. I have seen the pit in a roar of 
laughter at this humor, when with his sword he touches the glass 
from which another was drinkinsr. *Twas not his face thev lau2:hed 
at, for that was masked. Thev must have seen something? vastlv 
queer in the wooden sword that neither I nor you, sir, were you 
there, could see. 

In winter, when their canals are frozen, every house is forsaken, 
and all people are on the ice ; sleds di*awn by horses and skating 
are at that time the reigniug amusements. They have boats here 
that slide on the ice, and are driven by the winds. When they 
spread all the sails they go more than a mile and a half a minute, 
and their motion is so rapid the eye can scarcely accompany them. 
Their ordinary manner of travelling is very cheap and very con- 
venient ; they sail in covered boats drawn by horses, and in these 
you are sure to meet j^eople of all nations. Here the Dutch slum- 
ber, the French chatter, and the English play at cards. Any man 
who likes comj^any may have them to his taste. For my part, I 
generally detached myself from all society, and was wholly taken 
up in observing the face of the country. Xothing can equal its 
beauty; wherever I turn my eye, fine houses, elegant gardens, 
statues, grottos, vistas, presented themselves ; but when you enter 
their towns you are charmed beyond description. Xo misery is to 
be seen here ; every one is usefully emj^loyed. 

Scotland and this countrv bear the hisrhest contrast. There hills 
and rocks intercept every prospect : here 'tis all a continued 2)lain. 
There you might see a well-dressed duchess issuing from a dirty 
close ; and here a dirty Dutchman inhabiting a palace. The Scotch 
may be compared to a tulip planted in dung ; but I never see a 
Dutchman in his own house but I think of a magnificent Egyj^tian 
temple dedicated to an ox. Physic is by no means here taught so 
well as in Edinburgh ; and in all Ley den there are but four British 
students, owing to all necessaries being so extremely dear and the pro- 
fessors so very lazy (the chemical professor excepted) that we don't 
much care to come hither. I am not certain how long my stay here 
may be ; however, I expect to have the happiness of seeing you at 
Kilmore, if I can, next March. 



268 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

Direct to me, if I am honored with a letter from you, to Madame 

Diallion's, at Leyden. 

Til oil best of men, may Heaven guard and preserve you and 
those you love. 

OlIYEE GrOLDSMITH. 



TO THE KEY. HE>s"RY GOLDSMITH, AT LOTVFIELD, N"EAR BALLYMORE, 

IX TVESTMEATH, lEELAKD. 

Dear Sir: Your punctuality in answering a man whose trade is 
writing is more than I had reason to expect, and yet j^ou see me 
generally fill a whole sheet, which is all the recompense I can make 
for being so frequently troublesome. The beliavior of Mr. Mills 
and Mr. Lawder is a little extraordinary. However, their answering 
neither you nor me is a sufficient indication of their disliking the 
emplo\^ment which I assigned them. As their conduct is different 
from what I expected, so I have made an alteration in mine. I 
shall, the beginning of next month, send over two hundred and 
fifty books, which are all that I fancy can be well sold among you, 
and I would have you make some distinction in the persons who 
have subscribed. The money, which will amount to sixty pounds, 
may be left with Mr. Bradley, as soon as possible. I am not cer- 
tain but I shall quickly have occasion for it. I have met with no 
disappointment with respect to my East Indian voyage, nor are my 
resolutions altered ; though, at the same time, I must confess it 
gives me some pain to think I am almost beginning the world at 
the age of thirty-one. Though I never had a day's sickness since I 
saw you, yet I am not that strong and active man you once knew 
me. You scarcely can conceive how much eight years of disap^^oint- 
ment, angaish, and study have worn me down. If I remember 
right, you are seven or eight years older than me, yet I dare venture 
to say that if a stranger saw us both he would pay me the honors of 
seniority. Imagine to yourself a pale, melancholy visage, with two 
great wrinkles between the eye-brows, with an eye disgustingly 
severe, and a big wig, and you may have a perfect picture of my 
present appearance. On the other hand, I conceive you as perfectly 
sleek and healthy, passing many a happy day among your own 
children, or those who knew you a child. Since I knew what it 
was to be a man, this is a pleasure I have not known. I have 
passed my days among a parcel of cool, designing beings, and have 



Oliver Goldsmith. 269 

contracted all their suspicious manner in raj own behavior. I 

should actually be as unfit for the society of my friends at home as 
I detest that which I am obliged to partake of here. I can now 
neither partake of the j)leasure of a revel, nor contribute to raise 
its jollity. I can neither laugh nor drink^ liave contracted a hesi- 
tating, disagreeable manner of speaking, and a visage that looks ill- 
nature itself; in short, I have thought myself into a settled melan- 
choly, and an utter disgust of all that life brings with it. Whence 
this romantic turn that all our family are possessed with ? "Whence 
this love for every place and every country but that in wdiicli we 
reside ? for every occupation but our own ? this desire of fortune, 
and yet this eagerness to dissipate ? I jDcrceive, my dear sir, that I 
am at intervals for indulging this splenetic manner, and following 
my own taste, regardless of yours. 

The reasons you have given me for breeding up your son as a 
scholar are judicious and convincing. I should, however, be glad 
to know for what particular profession lie is designed. If he be 
assiduous and divested of strong passions (for passions in youth al- 
ways lead to j)leasure) he may do very w^ell in your college ; for it 
must be owned that the industrious poor have good encouragement 
there, perhaps better than in any other in Europe. But if he has 
ambition, strong passions, and an exquisite sensibility of contemjDt, 
do not send him there, unless you have no other trade for him ex- 
cept your own. It is impossible to conceive how much may be done 
by a proper education at home. A boy, for instance, who under- 
stands perfectly well Latin, French, arithmetic, and the principles 
of the civil law, and can write a fine hand, has an education that 
may qualify him for any undertaking. And these parts of learning 
should be carefully inculcated, let him be designed for wdiatever 
callins: he will. 

Above all things, let him never touch a romance or novel ; those 
paint beauty in colors more charming than nature, and describe 
happiness that man never tastes. How delusive, how destructive 
are those pictures of consummate bliss ! They teach the youthful 
mind to sigh after beauty and happiness which never existed ; to 
despise the little good which fortune has mixed in our cup, by 
expecting more than she ever gave ; and, in general, taKe the word 
of a man who has seen the world, and who has studied human 
nature more by experience than 2)recept. Take my word for it, 
that books teach us very little of the world. The greatest merit in 



2 JO The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

a state of poverty would only serve to make the possessor ridiculous 
— may distress, but cannot relieve him. Frugality, and even avar- 
ice, in the lower orders of mankind, are true ambition. These 
afford the only ladder for the poor to rise to preferment. Teach, 
then, my dear sir, to your son thrift and economy. Let his poor, 
wandering uncle's example be placed before his eyes. I had learned 
from books to be disinterested and generous before I was taught 
from experience the necessity of being prudent. I had contracted 
the habits and notions of a johilosopher while I was exposing myself 
to the insidious approaches of cunning ; and often by being, even 
with my narrow finances, charitable to excess, I forgot the rules of 
justice, and placed myself in the very situation of the wretch who 
thanked me for my bounty. While I am in the remotest part of 
the world, tell him this, and perhaps he may improve from my 
example. But I find myself again falling into my gloomy habits of 
thinking. 

My mother, I am informed, is almost blind. Even though I had 
the utmost inclination to return home> under such circumstances I 
could not ; for to behold her in distress, without a cajiacity of re- 
lieving her from it, would add too much to my splenetic habit. 
Your last letter was much too short; it should have answered some 
queries I had made in my former. Just sit down as I do, and write 
forward until you have filled all your paper; it requires no thought, 
at least from the ease with which my own sentiments rise when 
they are addressed to you. For, believe me, my head has no share 
in all I write; my heart dictates the whole. Pray, give my love to 
Bod Bryan ton, and entreat him, from me, not to drink. My dear 
sir, give me some account about poor Jenny (his younger sister, who 
had married unprosperously). But her husband loves her ; if so, 
she cannot be unhappy. 

I know not whether I should tell you — yet why should I conceal 
those trifles, or, indeed, anything from you ? — there is a book of 
mine will be published in a few days, the life of a very extraordi- 
nary man, no less than the great Voltaire. You know already, by 
the title, that it is no more than a catch-penny. However, I spent 
but four weeks on the whole performance, for which I received 
twenty pounds. When published, I shall take some method of con- 
veying it to you, unless you may think it dear of the postage, which 
may amount to four or five shillings. However, I fear you will not 
find an equivalent of amusement. Your last letter, I repeat it, was 



Oliver Goldsmith. 271 

too short ; you should have given nie your opinion of the design of 
the heroi-comical poem which I sent you; you remember I intended 
to introduce the hero of the poem as lying in a paltry alehouse. 
You may take the following specimen of the manner, which I 
flatter myself is quite original. The room in which he lies may be 
described somewhat this way: 

The \vTndow, patched with paper, lent a ray 
That feebly show'd the state in which he lav. 
The saDdy floor, that grits beneath the tread ; 
The humid wall, with paltry pictures spread ; 
The game of goose was there exposed to view, 
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew : 
The seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place, 
And Prussia's monarch show'd his lamp-bla^-k face. 
The morn was cold ; he views with keen desire 
A rusty grate unconscious of a fire. 
An unpaid reck'ning on the freeze was scor'd. 
An'd five crack'd teacups dress'd the chimney board. 

And now imagine, after his soliloquy, the landlord to make his 
appearance, in order to dun him for the reckoning : 

Not with that face, so servile and so gay. 
That welcomes every stranger that can pay. 
With sulky eye he smoak'd the patient man. 
Then pulPd his breeches tight, and thus began, etc. 

All this is taken, you see, from nature. It is a good remark of 
Montaigne's, that the wisest men often have friends with whom 
they do not care how much they jolay the fool. Take my present 
follies as instances of regard. Poetry is a much easier and more 
agreeable species of composition than ^^rose ; and could a man live 
by it, it were not unpleasant enjoyment to be a poet. I am resolved 
to leave no space, though I should till it up only by telling you, 
what you very well know already — I mean that I am yuur most 
affectionate friend aud brother, 

Oliyer Goldsmith. 



TO SIR JOSHUA RETXOLDS. 



My Dear Friexd : We had a very quick passage from Dover to 
Calais, which we performed in three hours and twenty minutes, all 
of us extremely sea-sick, which mu?t necessarily have happened, as 



272 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

my machine to prevent sea-sickness was not completed. We were 
glad to leave Dover, because we hated to be im230sed upon ; so were 
in high spirits at coming to Calais, wiiere we were told that a 
little money would go a great way. Upon landing two little trunks, 
which was all we carried with ns, we were surprised to see fourteen 
or fifteen fellows all running down to the ship to lay their hands 
upon them ; four got under each trunk, the rest surrounded and 
held the hasjos, and in this manner our little baggage was con- 
ducted, with a kind of funeral solemnity, till it was safely lodged 
at the Custom-House. We were well enough pleased with the peo- 
ple's civility till they came to be paid, when every creature that had 
the happiness of but touching our trunks with their fingers ex- 
pected sixpence, and had so pretty, civil a manner of demanding it 
that there was no refusing them. When we had done with the 
porters, we had next to speak with the Custom-House officers, who 
had their pretty, civil way too. We were directed to the Hotel 
d'Angleterre, where a valet-de-jDlace came to offer his service, and 
spoke to me ,ten minutes before I once found out that he was speak- 
ing English, We had no occasion for his services, so we gave him 
a little money because he spoke English, and because he wanted it. 
I cannot hel23 mentioning another circumstance. I bought a new 
ribbon for my wig at Canterbury, and the barber at Calais broke it, 
in order to gain sixpence by buying me a new one. 



TO BEI^l^ET LAKGTON, ESQ., AT LAKGTOiir, NEAK SPILSBY, 11^" 

LII^COLNSHIRE. 

Temple, Bkick Couet, Sept. 7, 1771. 
My Dear Sir : Since I had the pleasure of seeing you last I 
have been almost wholly in the country at a farmer's house, quite 
alone, trying to write a comedy. It is now finished, but when or 
how it will be acted, or whether it will be acted at all, are questions I 
cannot resolve. I am, therefore, so much employed upon that that 
I am under the necessity of putting off my intended visit to Lincoln- 
shire for this season. Reynolds is just returned from Paris, and finds 
himself now in the case of a truant that must make up for his idle 
time by diligence. We have therefore agreed to postpone our jour- 
ney till next summer, when we hope to have the honor of waiting 
upon Lady Rothes and you, and staying double the time of our late 



Oliver Golds7nith, 273 

intended visit. "We often meet, and never witliont remembering- 
YOU. I see Mr. Beanclerc very often both in town and country. 
He is now going directly forward to become a second Boyle, deej^ in 
chemistry and j^liysics. Johnson has been down upon a visit to a 
country parson, Doctor Taylor, and is returned to his old haunts at 
Mrs. Thrale's. Burke is a farmer, en attendant a better place, but 
visitins: about too. Everv soul is a visitino: about and meiTv but 
myself. And that is hard, too, as I have been trying these 
three months to do something to make i^eople laugh. There have 
I been strolling about the hedges, studying jests with a most tragi- 
cal counteuance. The ^' Xatural History *' is about half finished, 
and I will shoitly finish the rest. God knows I am tired of this 
kind of finishins:, which is but bunofliuDr -work, and that not so 
much my fault as the fault of my scurvy circumstances. They be- 
gin to talk in town of the Opposition's gaining ground ; the cry of 
hberty is still as loud as ever. I have published, or Da^s-is has pub- 
lished for me, an '^Abridgment of the History of England,*' for 
which I have been a good deal abused in the newspaj^ers for betray- 
ing the liberties of the peoj^le. God knows I had no thought for 
or against liberty in my head, my whole aim being to make up a 
book of a decent size that, as Squii-e Eichards says, '^•' would do no 
harm to nobodv." However, thev set me down as an arrant Tory, 
and consequently an honest man. When you come to look at any 
part of it, you'll say that I am a sour Whig. God bless you, and, 
with my most respectful compliments to her ladyship, 
I remain, dear sir, your most affectionate. 

Humble servant, 

Olivee Goldsmith. 



SIR PHILIP FRANCIS, 

AXD THE "LETTERS OF JUis"IUS." 

" As specimens of style, the " Letters of Junius" are, in their kind, absolutely- 
perfect." — Dr. Hart. 

"Perhaps the literature of no country in the world can offer a finer example 
of intense, unscrupulous, yet always elegant and dignified invective." — Shaw. 

SIR PHILIP FPtAXCIS was born in Dublin, in 1740. His 
father was a scholarly man and an able and yersatile writer. 
Young Francis was educated at St. Paul's School, London. While 
yet in his sixteenth, year, he obtained a government position, and 
in 1760 visited Portugal in company with the British envoy. On 
returning to London, the same year, Francis was ap^oointed to a 
clerkship in the War Office. He resigned this position in 1772. 
Two years subsequently he received a lucrative office in British 
India, where he became a member of the Council of Bengal. Here 
his duties brought him into contact with that disgrace to the British 
name, that man of blood and violence, Warren Hastings. Hastings 
was Governor-General of India. Francis, like a true man, opposed 
the governor's rapacious measures, and a bitter controversy ensued. 
It ended in a duel. Francis was wounded. 

Disgusted vritli the state of affairs in India, he returned to Eng- 
land in 1781, and three years later he entered the English Parlia- 
ment as member for Yarmouth. It was chiefly through the efforts 
of Francis that Warren Hastings was imj^eached in 1788. He was 
the mainspring in the famous trial tliat followed. He supplied the 
information which Burke and Sheridan expanded into eloquent ora- 
tions and burning invective. In 1806 Sir Phili]) Francis was 
knighted. He died in 1818. 

Francis, in his day, was conspicuous as a statesman and member 
of the British Parliament ; and, though an eloquent and effective 
speaker, he was more fluent with the pen than with the tongue. 
His real fame, however, rests on the connection of his name with 
that immortal collection of political epistles — around the author- 
ship of which there hung, for so long a time, the shadow of mys- 
tery — the ^'Letters of Junius." 

274 



Su' Philip Francis, 275 



THE '•' LETTERS OP JUXirS.*' 



These "Letters" were published in the Puhlic Advertiser of Lon- 
don, and appeared at varions times during a period of three years, 
the first bearing the date Januaiy 21, IT 69, and the last of January 
21, 1TT2. They number sixty-nine, the majority of them being 
signed **' Jtmitis.'' This soon became the most famotis nom de ijlume 
in literature. Thp letters are addressed to yarious personages, high * 
and low ; but it is especially the Duke of Grafton and Kis colleagues 
that Junius attacks with cutting satire and merciless severity. The 
duke was Premier of England, and to him eleven of the letters were 
addressed. The thirty-fifth letter was addressed to the king.^ It 
concludes with these bold words : •'• The j^rince who imitates their 
[the Stuarts*] conduct should be warned by their example ; and, 
while he plumes himself upon the security of his ritle to the crown, 
should remember that as it was acquired by one revolurion it may 
be lost by another.'* 

The burning words that fell from the pen of Jtmius startled the 
British nation. All read them., and all were astonished. These 
singular epistles contain some of the most effective invective to be 
found in literattire. Their condensed and lucid diction, studied 
epigrammatic sarcasm, dazzling metaj^hors, and fierce and haughty 
personal attacks arrested the attention of the Government and of 
the public. Xot less startling was the immediate and minute know- 
ledare which thev evinced of coxu-t secrets, makinsr it believed that 
the winter moved in the circle of the court, and was intimately ac- 
quainted not only with ministerial measures and intrigues, but with 
eveiy domestic incident. They exhibit indications of rank and for- 
tune as well as scholarship, the writer affirming that he was *' above 
a common bribe *' and far *'* above pectmiary views.*' ^ 

'' How comes this Junius to have broken through the cobwebs of 
the law,-*' said Edmund Burke in a speech in the House of Com- 
mons, *'•' and to range uncontrolled, unpunished through the land ? 
The myrmidons of the court have been long, and are still, jDursuing 
him in vain. They will not spend their time upon you or me. 
Xo ; they disdain such vermin when the mighty boar of the forest 
that has broken through aU their toils is before them. But what 
wiU all their efforts avail ? Xo sooner has he wounded one than 
he lays another dead at his feet ! " 

^ George m, - Appleton's " American CvclopEedia."" last edition, vol. is. 



276 The Prose and Poetry of Irela?id 

''Who wrote these letters ?*' was the question asked by king, and 
lord, and peasant. It was a profound secret. Junius was a mys- 
tery ; not more so was the '•' Man with the Iron Mask.*' In his 
dedication of his letters to the people of England he said : " I am 
the sole depository of my secret, and it shall perish with me." 

Did it •• perish with him '' ? 

It is now more than a century since the last of these famous let- 
ters appeared in the PvMic Adveriiser. They have been ascribed 
to fort y -two different writers/ among whom were Edmund Burke, 
Heniy Flood, Henry Grattan, Sir William Jones, and Sir Phihp 
Francis. Over a hundred books have been written on the subject 
of their authorship. Bnt it may now be considered as proved that 
the gifted Irishman, Sib Philip Fkaxcis, was Junius — that keen, 
sarcastic Junius, from whose pen flowed a brilliant stream of Hght- 
ning whose flashes frightened lords and dukes, aud the thunder of 
which shook the very Parliament of Great Britain I 

The first attempt to fix the authorship of these •' •' Letters '' upon Sir 
Philip Francis was made in 1816 by John Taylor, in his " Identity 
of Junius with a Distinguished Living Character.'* Since that 
time his claims have been most rigorously examined, and each new 
development but strengthens the evidence that Francis and Junius 
were the same person. Lord Macaulay said that **' the case against 
Francis, or, if you please, in favor of Francis, rests on coincidences 
sufficient to convict a mtirderer.'* 

A volume appeared in ISTl which did much to settle the ques- 
tion. It was entitled •'•' The Hand- writing of Junius Professionally 
Investigated,'*' by Charles Chabot, an expert. ''Its object," writes 
Dr. Halt, ''is to prove by a minute and exhaustive examination of 
the Jtmian manuscrijDts and of the letters of Sir Philip Francis that 
both were written by the same hand. The proof is of the strongest 
kind, amounting almost to a demonstration, and will go far to put 
this vexed question at rest.*' * 

Sir Philip Francis was but twenty-nine years of age when he 
began these famous letters. Doubtless they cost him great 
labor. They were polished to the utmost brilliancy, and with un- 
equalled dexterity and skiU they inflicted deep and envenomed 
wounds. In English Uterarure they hold the rank of a classic. 

' See Allibone's '• Dictionary of Authors," vol. L 

* •• English Literature." ed tion cf 1S?5. See ^ppleton's "American Cyclopaedia," last 
edition, voL is. , and the " Eneyeloi>2Bdia Britanniea," vol. x-. Am ed. 



Sir Philip Francis. 277 

'^I quote Junius in English," says Matliias, ''as I would quote 
Tacitus or Livy in Latin. " ' It is scarcely necessary to add tliat 
these ''Letters'' had a great popularity, and powerfully promoted 
the cause of civil liberty. 



LETTERS OF .JTXirS. 
LETTER TO HIS GEACE THE DUKE OF GEAFTOX. 

February 14, IT TO. 

My Loed : If I were personally your enemy, I might pity and 
forgive you. You have every claim to compassion that can arise 
from misery and distress. The condition you are reduced to would 
disarm a private enemy of his resentment, and leave no consolation 
to the most vindictive spirit, but that such an object as you are 
would disgi'ace the dignity of revenge. But in the relation you 
have borne to this country yoti have no title to indulgence, and if 
I had followed the dictates of my own opinion, I should never have 
allowed you the respite of a moment. In your ptiblic character you 
have injured every subject of the empire; and though an individual 
is not authorized to forgive the injuries done to society, he is called 
upon to assert his separate share in the public resentment. I submit- 
ted, however, to the judgment of men more moderate, perhaps more 
candid, than myself. For my own j)art, I do not j)retend to tmder- 
stand those prudent forms of decorum, those gentle rules of discre- 
tion, which some men endeavor to unite with the conduct of the 
^•eatest and most hazardous affairs. Engaged in the defence of an 
honorable cai'ise, I wotild take a decisive part. I should scorn to 
provide for a future retreat, or to keep terms with a man who pre- 
serves no measures with the public. Xeither the abject submission 
of deserting his post in the hour of danger, nor even the sacred ^ 
shield of cowardice should jorotect him. I would pursue him 
through life, and try the last exertion of my abilities to jireserve 
the i^erishable infamy of his name, and make it immortal. 

What, then, mv Lord ? Is this the event of all the sacrifices vou 
have made to Lord Bute's patronage and to your own tinfortunate 
ambition ? Was it for this you abandoned your earliest fi-iendshijis, 
the warmest connections of your youth, and all those honorable 

* ''Pursiiits of Literatore.'" 

* SaciX) tremuere timore — Every coward pretends to be planet-struck. 



278 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

engagements by wliieli you once solicited, and might have acquired, 
the esteem of your country ? Have you secured no recompense for 
such a waste of honor ? Unhappy man ! what party will receive 
the common deserter of all parties ? Without a client to flatter, 
without a friend to console you, and with only one companion 
from the honest house of Bloomsbury, you must now retire into a 
dreadful solitude. At the most active period of life you must quit 
the busy scene, and conceal yourself from the world, if you would 
hope to save the wretched remains of a ruined reputation. The 
vices oj^erate like age, bring on disease before its time, and in the 
prime of youth leave the character broken and exhausted. 

Yet your conduct has been mysterious, as well as contemptible. 
Where is now that firmness, or obstinacy, so long boasted of by your 
friends and acknowledged by your enemies ? We were taught to 
expect that you would not leave the ruin of this country to be com- 
pleted by other hands, but were determined either to gain a deci- 
sive victory over the constitution or to perish bravely, at least, 
behind the last dike of the prerogative. You knew the danger, and 
might have provided for it. You took sufficient time to prepare 
for a meeting with your Parliament to confirm the mercenary 
fidelity of your dependents, and to suggest to your sovereign a lan- 
guage suited to his dignity, at least, if not to his benevolence and 
wisdom. Yet, while the whole kingdom was agitated with anxious 
expectation uj)on one great point, you meanly evaded the question, 
and, instead of the exj)licit firmness and decision of a king, gave us 
nothing but the misery of a ruined ' grazier, and the whining piety 
of a Methodist. We had reason to expect that notice would have 
been taken of the petitions which the king had received from the 
English nation ; and, although I can conceive some personal mo- 
tives for not yielding to them, I can find none, in common prudence 
or decency, for treating them with contempt. Be assured, my 
Lord, the English people will not tamely submit to this unworthy 
treatment. They had a right to be heard, and their petitions, if 
not granted, deserved to be considered. Whatever be the real views 
and doctrines of a court, the sovereign should be taught to preserve 
some forms of attention to his subjects; and, if he will not redress 
their grievances, not to make them a topic of jest and mockery 
among lords and ladies of the bed-chamber. Injuries may be 
atoned for and forgiven, but insults admit of no compensation.. 

' There was something wonderfully pathetic in the mention of the horned cattle. 



Sir Philip Francis. 279 

They degrade the mind in its own esteem, and force it to recover 
its level by revenge. This neglect of the petitions was, however, a 
part of your original ]Dlan of government ; nor will any consequences 
it has produced account for your deserting your sovereign in the 
midst of that distress in w^iich you and your new friends ' have in- 
volved him. One would think, my Lord, you might have taken 
this spirited resolution before you had dissolved the last of those 
early connections which once, even in your own opinion, did honor 
to your youth — before you had obliged Lord Granby to quit a ser- 
vice he was attached to — before you had discarded one Chancellor 
and killed another. To what an abject condition have you labored 
to reduce the best of princes, when the unhappy man who yields at 
last to such personal instance and solicitation as never can be fairly 
employed against a subject, feels himself degraded by his com- 
pliance, and is unable to survive the disgraceful honors which his 
gracious sovereign has compelled him to accept I He was a man of 
spirit, for he had a quick sense of shame, and death has redeemed 
his character. I know your Grace too well to appeal to your feel- 
ings upon this event ; but there is another heart, not yet, I hope, 
quite callous to the touch of humanity, to which it ought to be a 
dreadful lesson forever/ 

Xow, my Lord, let us consider the situation to which you have 
conducted, and in which- you have thought it advisable to abandon, 
your royal master. "Whenever the peoj^le have complained, and 
nothing better could be said in defence of the measures of the 
Government, it has been the fashion to answer us, though not very 
fairly, with an appeal to the private virtues of your sovereign : 
^^Has he not, to relieve the people, surrendered a considerable part 
of his revenue ? Has he not made the judges independent by fix- 
ing them in their places for life ?" My Lord, we acknowledge the 
gracious principle which gave birth to these concessions, and have 
nothing to regret but that it has never been adhered to. At the 
end of seven years we are loaded with a debt of above five hundred 
thousand ^^ounds upon the civil list, and now we see the Chancellor 
of Great Britain tyrannically forced out of his office, not for want 
of abilities, not for vrant of integrity, or of attention to his duty, 
but for delivering his honest opinion in Parliament upon the great- 

8 The Bedford party. 

• The most secret particular of this detestable transaction shall in due time be given 
to the public. The peopie shall know what kind of man they have to deal with. 



2 So The Prose and Poetry oj Ireland. 

est constitutioual question that lias arisen since the revolution. We 
care not to whose private vii'tnes you appeal. The theory of such 
a government is falsehood and mockery; the practice is oj^pression. 
You have labored, then (though, I confess, to no purpose), to rob 
your master of the only j^lausible answer that ever was given in de- 
fence of his Government^ — of the opinion which the peojile had 
conceived of his personal honor and integi'ity. The Duke of Bed- 
ford was more moderate than your Grace ; he only forced his master 
to violate a solemn ^^romise made to an individual ;^° but you, my 
Lord, have successively extended your advice to every political, 
everv moral ensrawment that could bind either the mao:istrate or 
the man. The condition of a king is often miserable ; but it re- 
quired your Grace's abilities to make it contemjDtible. You will 
say, perhaps, that the faithful servants in whose hands you have 
left him are able to retrieve his honor, and to support his Govern- 
ment. You have publicly declared, even since your resignation, 
that you approved of their measures and admired their conduct, 
particularly that of the Earl of Sandwicli. What a pity it is that, 
with all this appearance, you should think it necessary to separate 
yourself from such amiable companions ! You forgot, my Lord, 
that, while you are lavish in the praise of men whom you desert, 
you are publicly opposing your conduct to your opinions, and de- 
priving yourself of the only plausible ju'etence you had for leaving 
your sovereign overwhelmed with distress. I call it plausible; for, 
in truth, there is no reason whatsoever, less than the frowns of your 
master, that could justify a man of spirit for abandoning his post 
at a moment so critical and important. It is in vain to evade the 
question : if you will not speak out, the public have a right to 
judge from appearances. AVe are authorized to conclude that you 
either differed from your colleagues, whose measures you still affect 
to defend, or that you thought the administration of the king's af- 
fairs no longer tenable. You are at liberty to choose between the 
hypocrite and the coward. Your best friends are in doubt which 
way they shall incline. Your country unites the characters, and 
gives yoit credit for them both. For my OAvn j^art, I see nothing 
inconsistent in your conduct. You began with betraying the peo- 
ple ; you conclude with betraying the king. 

In your treatment of particular persons you have preseiTed the 
uniformity of your character. Even Mr. Bradshaw declares that 

1*^' Mr. Stuart LIcKenzie. 



Sir Philip Francis. 281 

no man was ever so ill nsed as himself. As to the provisiou ^' yoti 
have made for his family, he was entitled to it by the house he 
lives in. The successor of one chancellor might well jDreteod to be 
the rival of another. It is the breach of j^riyate friendship which 
touches Mr. Bradshaw : and. to say the truth, when a man of his 
rank and abilities had taken so active a part in your afiairs, he 
ouglit not to have been let down at last with a miserable j^ension of 
fifteen hundred j^ounds a year. Colonel Ltittrell, Mr. Onslow, and 
GoTernor Burgoyne were equally engaged with you. and have rather 
more reason to complain than Mr. Bradshaw. These are men, my 
Lord, whose friendship you should have adhered to on the same 
principle on which yon deserted Lord Rockingham, Lord Chatham, 
Lord Camden, and the Duke of Portland. ^Ve can easily account 
for your violatinof your eno^as'ements with men of honor ; but why 
should you betray your natural connections ? TThy separate your- 
self from Lord Sandwich, Lord Gower, and Mr. Eigby, or leave 
the three worthy gentlemen above mentioned to shift for them- 
selves ? 'With all the fashionable indulgence of the times, this 
country does not abound in characters like theirs : and yoti may 
find it a very difficult matter to recruit the black catalogue of 
your friends. 

The recollection of the royal patent yon sold to Mr. Hine obliges 
me to say a word in defence of a man whom yon have taken the 
most dishonorable means to injure, I do not refer to the sham 
prosecution which you affected to cany on against him. On that 
ground, I doubt not, he is prepared to meet yon with tenfold re- 
crimination, and set you at defiance. The injury you have done 
him affects his moral character. You knew that the offer to pur- 
chase the reversion of a place, which has heretofore been sold under 
a decree of the court of chancery, however impudent in his situa- 
tioD, would no way tend to cover liim with that sort of guilt which 



11 A pension of £1,500 per annum, iosured upon the four and a half per cents (he -^ras 
too cunning to trust to Irish security for the lires of himself and sons. This gentle- 
man, -who, a very few years ago. -was clerk to a contractor for forage, and afterwards ex- 
alted to a petty post in theWar-Cffice, thought it necessary (as soon as he was appointed 
Secretary to the Treasury) to take that great house in Lincoln's Inn Fields in which the 
Earlof Xorthington had resided while he was Lord High-Chance'lor of Great Britain. 
As to the pension. Lord North very solemnly assured the House of Commons that no 
pension was ever ^o well deserved as Yr. Bradshaw" s. X. B — lord Camden and Sir Jef- 
frey Amherst are not near so well provided f r ; and Sir Edward Hawke. who saved the 
state, retires with two thousand pounds a year on the Irish establishment, from which 
he, in fact, receives less than ilr. Bradshaw' s pension. 



2S2 The Prose aiiel Poetry of Ireland. 

you wished to fix upon him in the eyes of the world. You labored 
then, by every species of false suggestion, and even by publishing 
counterfeit letters, to have it understood that he had i3roposed 
terms of accommodation to you, and had offered to abandon his 
principles, his party, and his friends. You consulted your own 
breast for a character of consummate treachery, and gave it to the 
public for that of Mi\ Yaughan. I think myself obHged to do this 
justice to an injured man, because I was deceived by the appear- 
ances thrown out by your Grace, aud have fi*equently spoken of his 
conduct with iudisrnation. If he reallv be. what I think him, 
honest though mistaken, he will be hajDpy in recovering his reputa- 
tion, though at the expense of his understanding. Here I see the 
matter is likely to rest Your Grace is afi*aid to carry on the prose- 
cution. Mr. Hine keeps quiet possession of the purchase, aud 
Governor Burgoyne, relieved fi'om the aj^prehension of refunding 
the money, sits down for the remainder of his life infamous and 
contented. 

I beheve, my Lord, I may now take my leave of you forever. 
You are no longer that resolute minister who had spirit to support 
the most violent measures, who comj^ensated for the want of good 
and great qualities by a brave determination (which some people 
admired and relied on) to maintain himself without them. The 
reputation of obstinacy and perseverance might have supphed the 
place of all the absent virtues. You have now added the last negar 
tive to your character, and meanly confessed that you are destitute 
of the common spirit of a man. Eetire, then, my Lord, and hide 
your blushes fi*om the world ; for, with such a load of shame, even 
hUick may change its color. A mind such as yours, in the solitary 
hours of domestic enjoyment, may stiQ find topics of consolation. 
You may find it in the memory of violated friendshi]?, in the 
afflictions 01 an accomplished prince whom you have disgraced and 
deserted, and in the agitations of a great country, driven, by your 
counsels, to the bi-ink of destruction. 

The palm of ministerial firmness is now trausf erred to Lord 
Xorth. He tells us so himself, and with the j)lenitude of the ore 
rotunda :^^ and I am readv euou^h to believe that, while he can 
keep his place, he will not easily be persuaded to resign it. Your 
Grace was the firm minister of yesterday ; Lord Xorth is the firm 

i> This elc»qaent person has got as far as the discipline of Demosthenes. He constantly 
speaks with pebbles in his month to improve his articnlation. 



Si 7' Philip Francis. 283 

minister of to-day ; to-morrow, j^erliaps, bis Majesty, in Lis wis- 
dom, may give us a rival for you both. You are too well acquainted 
with the temj^er of your late allies to think it possible that Lord Xorth 
should be permitted to govern this country. If we may believe com- 
mon fame, they have shown him their superiority already. His Ma- 
jesty is, indeed, too gracious to insult his subjects by choosing his first 
minister from among the domestics of the Duke of Bedford : that 
would have been too gross an outrage to the three kingdoms. Their 
purpose, however, is equally answered by pushing forward this un- 
hapj3y figure, and forcing it to bear the odium of measures which 
they in reality direct. A\'ithout immediately aj^peariug to govern, 
they possess the power and distribute the emoluments of govern- 
ment as they think proi3er. They still adhere to the spirit of that 
calculation which made Mr. Luttrell rej^resentative of Middlesex. 
Far from regi*etting your reti-eat, they assure us, very gravely, that 
it increases the real strength of the ministry. According to this 
way of reasoning, they will probably grow stronger and more 
flourishing every hour they exist ; for I think there is hardly a dav 
passes in which some one or other of his Majesty's servants does not 
leave them to improve by the loss of his assistance. But, alas ! 
their countenances speak a different language. ^Vhen the members 
drop off, the main body cannot be insensible of its approaching 
dissolution. Even the violence of their proceedings is a signal of 
despair. Like broken tenants who have had warning to quit 
the premises, they cui*se the landlord, destroy the fixtures, throw 
evervthins: into confusion, and care not what mischief thev do to 
the estate. Juxirs. 



LETTEE TO LOED XOETH. 

August 22, IT TO. 

My Loed : Mr. LuttrelFs services were the chief support and 
ornament of the Duke of Grafton's administration. The honor of 
rewarding them was reserved for your Lordship. The Duke, it 
seems, had contracted an obligation he was ashamed to acknow- 
ledge and unable to acquit. You, my Lord, had no scruples. You 
accepted the succession with all its encumbrances, and have paid 
Mr. Luttrell his legacy at the hazard of ruining the estate. 

When this accomplished youth declared himself the champion of 
Government, the world was busy enquiring what honors or emolu- 



284 TJic Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

ments could be a sufficient recompense to a young man of his rank 
and fortune for submitting to mark his entrance into life Avith the 
universal contempt and detestation of his country. His noble 
father had not been so precii^itate. To vacate his seat in Parlia- 
ment, to intrude upon a cotmtry in vrhich he had no interest or 
connection, to possess himself of another man's right, and to main- 
tain it in defiance of j^nblic shame as well as justice, bespoke a de- 
gree of zeal or of depravity which all the favor of a pious prince 
could hardly requite. I protest, my Lord, there is in this young 
man's condtict a strain of prostittition which, for its singularity, 1 
cannot but admire. He has discovered a new line in the htiman 
character; he has degraded even the name of Lttttrell, and gratified 
this father's most sanguine expectations. 

The Duke of Grafton, with every possible disposition to patronize 
this kind of merit, was contented with pronouncing Colonel Lut- 
trell's panegyric. The gallant spirit, the disinterested zeal of the 
young adventiu'er, were echoed through the House of Lords. His 
Grace rej^eatedly pledged himself to the House, as an evidence of 
the 23urity of liis friend Mr. Luttrell's intentions, that he had en- 
gaged without any prospect of personal benefit, and that the idea 
of compensation would mortally offend liim.^^ The noble Duke 
could hardly be in earnest, but he had lately quitted his employ- 
ment and began to think it necessary to take some care of his repu- 
tation. At that very moment the Irish negotiation was probably 
begun. Come forward, thoti worthy representative of Lord Bute, 
and tell this insulted country who advised the king to apj^oint Mr. 
LuttreU adjutant-general to the army in Ireland. By what man- 
agement was Colonel Cunninghame prevailed on to resign his em- 
ployment, and the obsequious Gisborne to accept of a pension for 
the government of Kiusale ?^^ Was it an original sti^^ulation with 
the Princess of AVales, or does he owe his j^referment to your Lord- 
ship's partiality, or to the Duke of Bedford's friendship ? Mj 

13 He now says that his great object is the rank of colonel, and that he will have it. 

1* This infamous transaction ought to be explained to the public. Colonel Gisborne 
■was quartermaster-general in Ireland. Lord Townshend persuaded him to resign to a 
Scotch officer, one Frazer. and gives him the government of Kinsale. Colonel Cunning- 
hame was adjutant-general in Ireland. Lord Townshend offers him a pension to induce 
him to resign to LuttreU. Cujininghame treats the offer with contempt. Wliat is to be 
done ? Poor Gisborne must move once more. He accepts of a pension of £500 a year until 
a government of greater value sha'l become vacant. Colonel Cunninghame is made Gov- 
ercor of Kinsale ; and LuttreU. at last, for whom the whole machinery is put in motion, 
becomes adjutant-general, an ], in effect, takes the command of the army in Ireland. 



Si7' Philip Francis. 285 

Lord, thougli it may not be possible to trace this measure to its 
source, we can follow the stream, and warn the country of its ap- 
proaching destruction. The English nation must be roused and 
put upon its guard. Mr. Luttrell has already shown us how far he 
may be trusted whenever an open attack is to be made upon the 
liberties of this country. I do not doubt that there is a deliberate 
plan formed. Your Lordship best knows by whom. The corrujo- 
tion of the legislative body on this side, a military force on the 
other, and then fareiceU to England ! It is impossible that any 
minister shall dare to advise the King to j^lace such a man as Lut- 
trell in the confidential post of adjutant-general if there were not 
some secret purpose in view which only such a man as Luttrell is 
fit to promote. The insult offered to the army in general is as 
gross as the outrage intended to the people of England. "What I 
Lieutenant-Colonel Luttrell adjutant-general of an army of sixteen 
thousand men I One would think his Majesty's campaigns at 
Blackheath and TTimbledon might have taught him better. I can- 
not hel]) wishing General Harvey joy of a colleague who does so 
much honor to the employment. But, my Lord, this measure is too 
daring to pass unnoticed, too dangerous to be received with in- 
difference or submission. You shall not have time to new model 
the Irish army. They will not submit to be garbled by Colonel 
Luttrell. As a mischief to the English Constitution (for he is not 
worth the name of enemy) they already detest him. As a boy, im- 
pudently thrust over their heads, they will receive him with in- 
dignation and contem2:)t. As for you, my Lord, who, j^erhaps, are 
no more than the blind, unhappy instrument of Lord Bute and her 
Royal Highness the Princess of Wales, be assured that you shall be 
called upon to answer for the advice which has been given, and 
either discover your accomplices or fall a sacrifice to their securitv. 

Jrxius. 



LETTER TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE LORD MAXSEIELD. 

Xovember 14, ITvO. 
My Lord: The appearance of this letter will attract the curi- 
osity of the public, and command even your Lordship's attention. 
I am considerably in your debt, and shall endeavor, once for all, to 
balance the account. Accej^t of this address, my Lord, as a pro- 



286 TJie Prose and Poetry of Irela?id. 

logue to more important scenes, in ^bich. you will probably be 
called upon to act or suffer. 

You will not question my yeracity wben I assui-e you tbat it has 
not beeu owing to any particular respect for your j^erson tbat I baye 
abstained from you so long. Besides the distress and danger with 
which the ju'ess is threatened, when your Lordship is party, and 
the party is to be judge, I confess I baye been deterred by the diffi- 
culty of the task. Our language has no term of reproach, the 
mind has no idea of detestation, which has not already been happily 
applied to you, and exhausted. Ample justice has been done, by 
abler pens than mine, to the separate merits of your life and cha- 
racter. Let it be my humble office to collect the scattered sweets 
till their united yirtue tortures the sense. 

Permit me to begin with'^paying a just tribute to Scotch sin- 
cerity whereyer I find it. I own I am not aj)t to confide in the 
professions of gentlemen of that country, and when they smile I 
feel an inyoluntary emotion to guard myself against mischief. With 
this general opinion of an ancient nation, I always thought it much 
to your Lordship's honor that, in your earlier days, you were but 
little infected with the prudence of your country. You had some 
original attachments, which you took eyery proper opj^ortunity to 
acknowledge. The liberal spirit of youth preyailed oyer your native 
discretion. Your zeal in the cause of an unhappy prince was ex- 
pressed with the sincerity of wine and some of the solemnities of 
rehgion.^^ This, I conceiye, is the most amiable point of yiew in 
which your character has apjDeared. Like an honest man, you took 
that part in pohtics which might haye been expected from your 
buth, education, country, and connections. There was something 
generous in yotu* attachment to the banished house of Stuart. "We 
lament the mistakes of a good man, and do not begin to detest him 
until he affects to renounce his principles. Why did you not adhere 
to that loyalty you once professed ? Why did you not follow the 
example of your worthy brother ? ^^ With him you might haye 
shared in the honor of the Pretender's confidence : with him you 
might haye preseryed the integrity of your character : and England, 
I think, might haye spared you without regret. Your friends will 

^' This man was always a rank Jacobite. Lord Rarensworth produced the most satis- 
factory evidence of his having frequently drank the Pretender's health on his knees. 

^5 Confidential secretary to the late Pretender. This eircnmstance confirmed the 
-friendship between the brothers. 



Sir Philip Fraiuis. 287 

/ 

gav, perhaps, that, although you deserted the fortune of your liege 
lord, Tou have adhered firmly to the principles which drove his 
father from the throne : that, without openly supi>orting the i)er- 
son. TOU hare done essential service to the cause, and consoled, yotir- 
self for the loss of a favorite family by reviving and estabhshing the 
maxims of their government. This is the way in which a Scotch- 
man's understanding corrects the errors of his heart. My Lord, I 
acknowledge the truth of the defence, and can trace it through all 
vour eonducL I see through your whole life one uniform plan to 
I lar ge the power of the crown at the expense of the liberty of the 
subject. To this object your thoughts, words, and actions have 
been constantly directed. In contempt or ignorance of the common 
law of England, you have made it your study to introduce into the 
:ourt where you preside maxims of jurisprudence unknown to Eng- 
lishmen. The Koman code, the law of nations, and the opinion of 
foreign civilians are your perpetual theme : but who ever heard you 
mention Magna Charta or the Bill of Rights with approbation or 
Tesjject ? By such treacherous arts the noble simplicity and free 
spirit of our Saxon laws were first corrupted. The Xorman con- 
quest was not complete until Xorman lawyers had introduced their 
laws, and reduced slavery to a system. This one leading principle 
directs your interpretation of the laws, and accounts for your treat- 
ment of juries. It is not in political questions only (for there the 
courtier might be forgiven), but let the cause be what it may, your 
imderstanding is equally on the rack, either to contract the jx)wer 
of the jury or to mislead their judgment. For the truth of this 
assertion I appeal to the doctrine you delivered in Lord Grosve- 
nors cause. An action for criminal conveKation beins: brought bv 
''* peer against a prince of the blood, you were daring enough to tell 
e jury that, in fijxing the damages, they were to pay no regard to 
-le quality or fortune of the parties ; that it was a trial between A 
and B ; that they were to consider the offence in a moral hght only, 
and give no greater damages to a peer of the realm tlian to the 
meanest mechanic. I shall not attempt to refute a doctrine which, 
if it was m^mt for law, carries falsehood and absurdity upon the 
face of it : ; ::.r ii i: —as meant for a declaration of your poUtical 
creed, is clear and consistent. Under an arbitrary government all 
ranks and distinctions are confounded ; the honor of a nobleman is 
no more considered than the reputation of a peasant ; for, with dif- 
ferent liveries, they are equally slaves. 



2 88 The Pilose and Poetry of I 7' eland. 

Even ill matters of private 2")roperty we see the same bias and in- 
clination to depart from the decisions of your predecessors, which 
yon certainly ought to receive as evidence of the common law. In- 
stead of those certain positive rules by which the judgment of a 
court of law should invariably be determined, you have fondly in- 
troduced your own unsettled notions of equity and substantial jus- 
tice. Decisions given upon such principles do not alarm the public 
so much as they ought, because the consequence and tendency of 
each particular instance is not observed or regarded. In the mean- 
time the practice gains ground, the Court of King's Bench becomes 
a court of equity, and the judge, instead of consulting strictly the 
law of the land, refers only to the wisdom of the court, and to the 
purit)^ of his own conscience. The name of Mr. Justice Yates will 
naturally revive in your mind some of those emotions of fear and 
detestation with which you always beheld him. That great lawyer, 
that honest man, saw your whole conduct in the light that I do. 
After years of ineffectual resistance to the pernicious princijole in- 
troduced by your Lordship, and uniformly supported by liumhle 
friends upon the bench, he determined to quit a court Avhose pro- 
ceedings and decisions he could neither assent to with honor nor 
oppose with success. 

The injustice done to an individual ^^ is sometimes of service to 
the public. Pacts are apt to alarm us more than the most danger- 
ous principles. The sufferings and firmness of a printer have roused 
the public attention. You knew and felt that your conduct w^ould 
not bear a parliamentary enquiry ; and you hoped to escape it by 
the meanest, the basest sacrifice of dignity and consistency that ever 
was made by a great magistrate. Where was your firmness, where 
was that vindictive spirit, of which we have seen so many examples, 
when a man so inconsiderable as Bingley could force you to confess, 
in the face of this country, that, for two years together, you had 
illegally deprived an English subject of his liberty, and that he had 
triumphed over you at last ? Yet, I own, my Lord, that yours is 
not an uncommon character. Women, and men like women, are 
timid, vindictive, and irresolute. Their passions counteract each 
other, and make the same creature at one moment hateful, at an- 
other contemptible. I fancy, my Lord, some time will elapse before 

!■' The oppression of an obscure individual gave birth to the famous Habeas Corpus 
Act of 31 Car. II. which is frequently considered as another Magna Charta of this king- 
dom. — "Blackstone" iii. 135. 



Sir Philip Francis. 289 

vou venture to commit another Englishman for refusing to answer 
interrogatories/* 

The doctrine you have constantly delivered in cases of libel is 
another powerful evidence of a settled plan to contract the legal 
power of juries, and to draw questions, inseparable from fact, within 
the arhitrium of the court. Here, my Lord, jou have fortune on 
yotir side. When you invade the province of the jury, in matter of 
libel, you in effect attack the liberty of the 23ress, and with a 
single stroke wound two of your greatest enemies. In some in- 
stances you have succeeded, because jurymen are too often ignorant 
of their own rights, and too apt to be awed by the authority of a 
chief -justice. In other criminal prosecutions the malice of the de- 
sign ii confessedly as much the stibject of consideration to a jtiry as 
the certainty of the fact. If a different doctrine prevails in the case 
of libels, why should it not extend to aU criminal cases ? ^Yhy not 
to capital offences ? I see no reason (and dare say yott will agree 
with me, that there is no good one) "why the life of the subject 
should be better protected against you than his liberty or property. 
Why should you enjoy the full power of pillory, fine, and imprison- 
ment, and not be indulged with hanging or transjiortation ? With 
your Lordship's fertile genius and merciful disposition, I can con- 
ceive such an exercise of the power you have as could hardly be 
aeg-ravated bv that which vou have not. 

But, my Lord, since yott have labored (and not unsuccessfully) to 
destroy the substance of the trial, why should yott suffer the form of 
the verdict to remain ? Why force twelve honest men, in palpable 
violation of their oaths, to pronounce their fellow-subject a guilty 
man, when, almost at the same moment, you forbid their enqttiring 
into the only circtimstance which, in the eye of law and reason, 
constittttes gitilt — the malignity or innocence of his in'^entions ? 
But I understand yotir Lordship. If you cotild succeed in making 
the trial by jury useless and ridictilous, you might then, with greater 
safety, introduce a bill into Parliament for enlarging the jurisdic- 
tion of the court, and extending your favorite trial by interrogato- 



^^ Bingley was committed for contempt in not submitting to be examined. He lay in 
prison fwo years, until the Crown thought the matter might occasion some serious com- 
plaint, and therefore he was let out. in the same contumelious state he had been put in, 
"With al] his sins about him, anannointed and unanealed. There was much coquetry be- 
tween the court and the attorney-general about who should undergo the ridicule of 
letting him escape. Tide another •' Letter to Almon." p. 189. 



290 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

ries to every question iu which the life or liberty of an Englishman 
is concerned/^ 

Your charge to the jury in the prosecution against Almon and 
Woodfall contradicts the highest legal authorities, as well as the 
plainest dictates of reason. In Miller's case, and still more expressly 
in that of Baldwin, you have proceeded a step farther, and grossly 
contradicted yourself. You may know, joerhaps, though I do not 
mean to insult you by an appeal to your experience, that the lan- 
guage of truth is uniform and consistent. To depart from it safely 
requires memory and discretion. In the last two trials your charge 
to the jury began, as usual, with assuring them tliat they had no- 
thing to do with the law ; tlnit they were to find the bare fact, and 
not concern themselves about the legal inferences drawn from it, or 
the degree of the defendant's guilt. Thus far you were consistent 
with your former j'ractice. But how will you account for the con- 
clusion ? You told the jury that " if, after all, they would take 
upon themselves to determine the law, tliey might do it, but they 
must be very sure that they determined according to law ; for it 
touched their consciences, and they acted at their peril." If I un- 
derstand your first proposition, you mean to affirm that the jury 
were not comj^etent judges of the law in the criminal case of a libel; 
that it did not fall within their jurisdiction; and that with respect 
to them the malice or innocence of tlie defendant's intentions would 
be a question coram non judice. But the second proposition clears 
away your own difficulties and restores the jury to all their judicial 
capacities.^" You make the competence of the court to depend 
ujoon the legality of the decision. In the first instance you deny 
the power absolutely ; in the second you admit the power, provided 
it be legally exercised. Now, my Lord, without pretending to re- 
concile tlie distinctions of Westminster Hall with the simple infor- 

'^ The philosophical poet doth notably describe the damnable and damned proceedings 
of the judge of h3ll : 

" Gnossius haec Badamanthus habet durissima regna, 
Castigatque, auditque dolos, subigitque fatei-i." 
First he punisheth and Oien he heareth, and lastly compelleth to confess, and makes and 
mais laws at his pleasure, like as the Centurion, in the holy history, did to St. Paul ; 
for the text saith : " Centurio apprehendi Paulum jussit, et se catenis ligari, et tunc in- 
terrogahat quis fuisset, et quid fecisset." But good judges and justices abhor those 
courses. (Joke^ 2 I)isi. 53. 

20 Directly the reverse of the doctrine he constantly maintained in the House of Lords 
and elsewhere upon the decision of the Middlesex election. He invariably asserted that 
the decision must be legal because the court was competent and never could be prevailed 
on to enter farther into the question. 



.^ 



Sir PJiilip Francis. 291 

matiou of common sense, or the integrity of fair argtiment, I shall 
be understood by your Lordship when I assert that if a jury, or 
any other court of judicatui'e (for jurors are judges), have no right 
to enter into a cause or question of law. it sia'nifies nothina: whether 
their decisions be or be not according to law. Their decision is, in 
itself, a mere nullity ; the parties are not bound to stibmit to it ; 
and if the jury run any risk of punishment, it is not for pronounc- 
ing a corrupt or illegal verdict, but for the illegality of meddling 
with a point on which they have no legal authority to decide." 

I cannot quit this stibject without reminding your Lordship of 
the uame of Mr. Benson. Without offering any legal objection, you 
ordered a special juryman to be set aside in a cause where the King 
was prosecutor. The noTelty of the fact required explanation. 
Will you condescend to tell the world by what law or custom you 
were authorized to make a peremptory challenge of a juryman ? 
The parties, indeed, have this power, and jierhaps yotir Lordship, 
having acctistomed yourself to tinite the characters of judge and 
party, may claim it in virtue of the new capacity you have assumed, 
and profit by your own wrong. The time within which you might 
have been punished for this daring attempt to pack a jury is, I 
fear, elapsed ; but no length of time shall erase the record of it. 

The mischiefs yoti have done this country are not confined to 
your interpretation of the laws. You are a minister, my Lord, and 
as such have long been consulted. Let us candidly examine what 
use you have made of your ministerial influence. I will not 
descend to little matters, but come at once to those important 
points on which yottr resolution was waited for, on which the ex- 
pectation of your opinion kept a great j^art of the nation in 
suspense. A constitutional question arises upon a declaration of 
the law of Parliament by which the freedom of election and the 
birthright of the subject were supposed to have been invaded. 
The King's servants are accused of violating the Constittttion. The 
nation is in a ferment. The ablest men of all parties engage in 
the question, and exert their utmost abilities in the discussion of it. 
What part has the honest Lord Mansfield acted ? As an eminent 
judge of the law, his opinion would have been respected. As a 

^' These iniquitous prosecutions cost the best of princes six thousand pounds, and 
ended in the total defeat; and disgrace of the prosecutors. In the course of one of them 
Judge Aston had the unparalleled impudence to tell Mr. Morris, a gentleman of unques- 
tionable honor and integrity, and who was then giving his evidence on oath, OuU he 
■itttiuLdpay eery little regard to amj affidavit he should make.. 



292 TJie Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

peer, he had a right to demand an audience of liis sovereign, and 
inform him that his ministers were pursuing unconstitutional mea- 
sures. Upon other occasions, my Lord, you have no diflBculty in 
finding your way into the closet. The jn-etended neutrality of 
belonging to no party will not save your reputation. In a question 
merely political an honest man may stand neuter ; hut the laws 
and Constitution are the general proj^erty of the stibject ; not to 
defend is to relinquish — and who is there so senseless as to renounce 
his share in a common beneGt, unless he hopes to profit by a new 
division of the spoil ? As a Lord of Parhament, you were repeatedly 
called upon to condemn or defend the new law declared by the 
House of Commons. You affected to have scruples, and every ex- 
23edient was attempted to remove them. The question was proposed 
and urged to you in a thousand different shapes. Your prudence 
still supplied you with evasion ; your resolution was invincible. 
For my own part, I am not anxious to penetrate this solemn secret. 
I care not to whose wisdom it is entrusted, nor how soon you carry 
it with you to the grave." You have betrayed your opinion by the 
very care you have taken to conceal it. It is not from Lord Mans- 
field that we expect any reserve in declaring his real sentiments in 
favor of government or in opposition to the 2oeoplc ; nor is it diflS- 
cult to account for the motions of a timid, dishonest heart, which 
neither has virtue enough to acknowledge truth nor courage to 
contradict it. Yet you continue to support an administration which 
you know is universally odious, and which, on some occasions, you 
yourself speak of with contempt. You would fain be thought to 
take no share in o;overnment, while in realitv vou are the main- 
spring of the machine. Here, too, we trace the little, j^rudential 
policy of a Scotchman. Instead of acting that open, generous part 
which becomes your rank and station, you meanly skulk into the 
closet and give your sovereign such advice as you have not the spirit 
to avow or defend. You secretly engross the power, while you 
decline the title, of a minister : and, though you dare not be Chan- 
cellor, you know how to secure the emoluments of the office. Are 
the seals to be for ever in commission, that you may enjoy five 
thousand pounds a year ? I beg pardon, my Lord I your fears have 
interposed at last, and forced you to resign. The odium of con- 
tinuing Speaker of the House of Lords upon such terms was too 

22 He said in the House of Lords that he believed he should carry his opinion with him 
to the grare. It was afterwards reported that he had en';rusted it in special confidence 
to the ingenious Duke of Cumberland. 



Sir Philip Francis, 293 

formidable to be resisted. What a multitude of bad passions are 
forced to submit to a constitutional infirmity ! But, though you 
have relinquished the salary, yoti still assume the rights of a 
minister. Your conduct, it seems, must be defended in Parliament. 
For what other purpose is your wretched friend, that miserable 
Serjeant, ^^osted to the House of Commons ? Is it in the abilities 
of a ^Ir. Leigh to defend the great Lord Mansfield? Or is he only 
the Punch of the puppet-show, to speak as he is j^rompted by the 
chief juggler behind the curtain ? " 

In pttblic affairs, my Lord, cumiing, let it be ever so well wrought, 
will not conduct a man honorably through life. Like bad money, 
it may be current for a time, but it will be soon cried down. It 
cannot consist with a liberal spirit : though it be sometimes united 
with extraordinary qualifications. When I acknowledge your abili- 
ties, yoti may beliere I am sincere. I feel for human nature when I 
see a man so gifted as yoti are descend to such yile practices. Yet 
do not suffer your vanity to console you too soon. Believe me, my 
good Lord, you are not admired in the same degree in which you 
are detested. It is only the partiality of your friends that balances 
the defects of your heart with the superiority of your understand- 
ing. Xo learned man, even among your own tribe, thinks you 
qualified to preside in a court of common, law : yet it is confessed 
that under Justinian you might have made an incomparable 
]_)r(Eto)\ It is remarkable enough, but I hope not ominous, that the 
laws you understand best, and the judges you affect to admire most, 
flourished in the decline of a great empire, and are supposed to have 
contributed to its fall. 

Here, my Lord, it may be proper for us to pause together. It is 
not for my own sake that I wish you to consider the delicacy of your 
situation. Beware how vou induW the first emotions of vour re- 
sentment. This paper is delivered to the world, and cannot be re- 
called. The prosecution of an innocent printer cannot alter facts 
nor refute arguments. Do not furnish me with farther materials 
-against yourself. An honest man, like the true religion, appeals to 
the understanding, or modestly confides in the eternal evidence of 
his conscience. The impostor employs force instead of argument, 
imposes silence where he cannot convince, and proj^agates his cha- 
racter by the sword. Juxius. 

-^ This paragraph gagged poor Leigh. I am really concerned for the man, and wish it 
"were possible to open his mouth. He is a very pretty orator. 



EDMUND BURKE. 

" This man has been to his own conntry and to all Europe a new light of 
political wisdom and moral experience." — Scttt.f.gel. 

" Edmund Burke was one of the greatest of the sons of men." — At-ttr ovf., 

EDMUXD BUEKE -was born in a house on AiTan Quay, Dublin, 
in 1730. His father. Eichard Burke, a Protestant, "svas an at- 
torney who enjoyed a large and thriving practice. His mother. 
Miss Mary Xagle. was a Catholic, an excellent lady, and a member 
of an ancient Irish family of the county of Cork.^ 

In his twelfth year Edmund was sent to school at Ballitore. in 
Kildare, and there, under a skilful master, Abraham Shackleton, 
the Quaker, he studied for about two years. It is said *•' the boy 
is father of the man. ' ' Of the tnith of this, Burke is a happy illus- 
tration. As a boy he was very studious and a hard worker. •*' When 
we were at play," said his brother Eichard, in after years, ••'Xed 
was always at work." He was also noted for his wit, humor, and 
amiability. 

Trinity Collesre, Dubhn, Burke entered in 1T43.' To-day his 
portrait adorns the walls of the Examination Hall. Goldsmith 
entered Trinity the following year, but it appears these distin- 
guished men knew little of each other in eai'ly life. Burke took 
the degree of B.A. in 1T4S, and three years subsequently the degree 
of M.A. While jDursuing his tmiyersity coiu'se, he read Shakspere 
and other great poets with unceasing delight. 

In lT4v Edmund Burke entered the Middle Temjile, London, 
with the intention of studying law. Btit he never became a law- 
yer. His great genins soon fotmd its fitting sphere in literattire 
and in the life of a statesman. His very first production, " The 
Yindication of Xatural Society,'' in imitation of Lord Bohngbroke, 
is pronounced by the best critics to be *'* the most perfect S2:)ecimen 
of imitation that was ever jienned." In the course of the same 
year (1756) he published his celebrated "Essay on the Sublime 

1 Miss ^ano Nagle, the holy foundress of the Presentation Xuns. was a descendant of 

the same family. 

- It is said that he aJso studied for a time at the English Catholic CoUege of St. Omer» 

France. 

294 



Edmund Bicrkc. 295 

and Beautiful." This work attracted immense attention, brought 
the author money, and at once stamped him as a remarkable young 
man. 

He was now in his twenty-eighth year, but severe study and men- 
tal eSort began to tell on a constitution naturally delicate. To his 
Catholic countryman. Dr. Christopher Nugent, he applied for ad- 
vice. He was told that he especially needed relaxation, and the 
friendly physician, that he might more carefully attend to his wants, 
irndted him to take up his residence in his own hospitable house. 
Here Burke found a home and unceasing care. » The good doctor had 
a bright, lovely, and most amiable daughter. That the doctor's 
daughter should assist in the doctor's work was natural, nor 
perhaps was it less natural that the patient should be fascinated. 
*^ The rest may be imagined," says one of Burke's biographers. 
" The patient ventured to prescribe for himself, the disease having 
reached the heart, and, in 1757, Miss Nugent became Mrs. Edmund 
Burke." Thus was the cure perfected in a short time, and, what 
was more, the future statesman obtained the greatest earthly bless- 
ing that any man can desire — a most devoted wife, loving compan- 
ion, wise adviser, and, above all, sympathizing friend. The young 
lady had not a shilling ; but she brought with her the incomparable 
fortune of education, beauty, and -virtue. The eulogy of this good 
and accomplished Irishwoman may be given in one sentence of her 
illustrious husband. He declared that, amid all the toils, and 
trials, and conflicts oi life, " every care vanished tlie moment he 
entered his own roof." 

Burke's entrance on public life may be dated from his appoint- 
ment, in 1761, as private secretary to " Single-Speech " Hamilton, 
who then became Chief-Secretary for Ireland. The atmosphere of 
Dublin Castle, however, did not long agree with the clever young 
"Whig, who threw up a lately-conferred pension of $1,500 a year, 
broke with Hamilton, and returned to London. In his whole life 
Hamilton made btit one good speech, hence the handle to his name, 
^* Single-Speech." It is said Burke wrote the speech for him. But 
what this man lacked in brains and ability was abundantly supplied 
by another sort of article, which we may label ^^ arrogance.'' Be- 
fore parting with Burke, he had the meanness to insult him. '* I 
took you down from a garret," ^ taunted the malicious ^' Single- 

3 This -was a falsehood. Burke's family was wealthy, and his own social position was 
scarcely inferior to Hamilton s. 



296 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

Speech." ** Sir," replied the noble Bnrke, in a tone of withering 
sarcasm, ** it was I that descended to know yon.** 

A brOliant career awaited Bnrke in London. He was appointed 
private secretiiry to the Marqnis of Eockingliam, who became Prime 
^linister in 1765. The following year the gifted anthor of the 
•• Essay on the Snblime and the Beantiful ** entered Parliament as 
member for Wendover, and no man, perhaps, erer entered or ever 
will enter the legislatiye halls of Great Britain with so fnll a mind 
and so weU trained for his work. Xow began his political career. 
Reform, Ireland^ and America were the great subjects of the day, 
and the mighty Toice of Edmund Burke was ever heard on the side 
of jusrice and liberty. His very first speech rivetted the attention 
of the House. At the success of this first effort a conceited mem- 
ber of the literary Club expressed some astonishment in the pre- 
sence of old Dr. Johnson of dictionary fame. '• Sir,'*' interrupted 
the indismant literarv dictator, snuffino; his man out in a moment — 
'• sir, there is no wonder at alL We who know IMr. Burke know 
that he wLU be one of the /frsf men in the country." 

*• At the age of thirty-six,*' says a late writer, ^'he stood for the 
first time on the floor of St. Stephens Chapel, whose walls were to 
ring so often during the next eight-and-twenty years with the rolling 
periods of his grand eloquence, and the peals of acclamation burst- 
ing alike from friend and foe. Among the great men who then sat 
upon the benches of that ancient hall, Burke at once took a foremost 
place.*' 

He advocated the freedom of the press ; he advocated Catholic 
emancipation ; * he advocated the rights of the American Colonies ; 
and his matchless words careered over the broad Atlantic, strength- 
ening the hearts and nerving the arms of the American patriots. 
*^" Venality and meanness." says CampbeD, ••'stood appalled in his 
presence." 

But we must be brief. The life of Edmund Burke is a history of 
those eventful times ; here it cannot all be told. 

One day, after a brilliant conversation, four gentlemen went out 
for a walk. They were Burke, his son Bichard, the friend of his 
youth, Shackleton. of BalHtore school, and another gentleman. 

* Edmund Borke -was not a Catludie ; bnt •• a^airsT the penal I2.— 5 rlez —^'.z^'^z -iz ;:: 

the Irish Catholics." wTites Amcld. *' he ^ckr i-l ^rrote with a- t-^^ ^ — - '- ^ 'j. 

The memory of his mother had, perhaps, as c^ u :_ ; _j viththisas '_r '^l-.-^z -- --' --n- 
ment and capacity of his mind.*' 



Ed77iiind Burke. 



297 



Mr. Shackleton remarked to young Burke : '"Your father is the 
greatest man of the age."' '•'He is/" replied the son with filial en- 
thtisiasm, *' the greatest man of any age I " * His son was a young 
man of S23lendid gifts ; in fact, Edmund Burke always considered 
his son's talents as far superior to his own. Such was the modesty 
of this illustriotis man. 

Burke's impeachment, in the House of Commons, of AVarren 
Hastings, Governor-General of India, was perhaps the grandest 
oratorical achievement of his life. In a speech of four days he 
opened the case, in February, 1T88. He continued his statement 
during certain days in April. His charges he wound up with a 
matchless address, which began on May 28, and lasted for nine suc- 
ceeding days. The effect was indescribable ; ladies sobbed and 
screamed, and stern men felt the tears trickling down their cheeks. 
The dignity aud grandeur of this memorable speech may be judged 
from the concluding sentences : ^'My Lords, it is not the crimi- 
nality of the prisoner, it is not the claims of the Commons, to 
demand jttdgment to be passed tiponhim; it is not the honor and 
dignity of this court, and the welfare of millions of the human 
race, that alone call upon yoti. TVhen the devouring flames shall 
have destroyed this perishable globe, and it sinks into the abyss of 
nature whence it was commanded into existence by the great Atithor 
of it — then, my lords, when all nature, kings and judges themselves, 
must answer for their actions, there will be fotmd what supersedes 
creation itself — namelv, Eterxal Justice. It was the attribute of 
the irreat God of i!*^ATURE before worlds were, it will reside with him 
when they j)erish ; and the earthly portion of it committed to your 
care is now solemnly deposited in your hands by the Commons of 
England. I have done.'' 

Another subject now filled his mind. He foresaw, almost with 
prophetic vision, that the hurricane of revolution was gathering 
over France, and when it broke in its fury, devastating that beauti- 
ful land, he gave the world his greatest work, '^* Eeflectious on the 
Eevolution in France.'' Bythisttnrivalled book the gTcat Irishman 
made Europe his debtor. Kings complimented him ; even the 
blufl old George III. said ''it was a book that every gentleman 
should read." The King of Poland sent him his likeness on a gold 
medal, with a flattering letter in English. Honors were showered 

-' Burke had only two cMldren — Christopher, -who died an infant, and Richard, who 
reached the age of manhood, but died some vea s before his father. 



298 The Prose and Poetry of Irelajzd. 

on the author by the universities, and the clergy of France and 
England were warm in expressing their gratitude." 

But by his opinions in regard to the French Eevolution he also 
made himself many opponents. It caused the estrangement between 
him and Fox. The breach was never healed. When the rupture 
with Fox occurred, Burke, in one of his eloquent speeches, said, 
in his own energetic w^ay : ^^I have made a great sacrifice ; I have 
done my duty, though I have lost my friend." 

A severe domestic blow now fell upon the aged philosopher and 
statesman. His only son, Eichard, died in 1794. This sad event 
threw a dark shadow across his last days. It almost broke his 
heart, as his love for his gifted son was unbounded. In one of his 
celebrated letters he thus refers to his loss: ^^I live in an inverted 
order. They who ought to have succeeded me have gone before me ; 
they who should have been to me as posterity are in the place of 
ancestors. The storm has gone over me, and I lie like one of these 
old oaks which the late hurricane has scattered about me. I am 
stript of all my honors. I am torn up by the roots, and lie pros- 
trate on the earth. There, and prostrate there, I must unfeignedly 
recognize the divine justice, and in some degree submit to it." " 

The three years which he survived his son were chiefly spent in 
acts of charity. For the children of French emigrants he founded 
a school, and its permanent support formed one of his latest cares. 
Eetaining the perfect possession of all his faculties to the last, the 
immortal Edmund Burke calmly expired at his country seat of 
Beacousfield in Jul}^, 1794, and his honored remains were laid in a 
vault under Beacousfield church, beside the dust of that son whom 
he had loA'ed so well. His last words were : '' God bless you ! " 

Of Burke's works and character we have but space for a few re- 
marks. His ^'Parliamentary Speeches" fill several volumes, and 
form an enduring monument to his fame as, perhaj^s, the greatest 
j)hilosophical statesman that the world has ever seen. His ^^ Essay 
on the Sublime and Beautiful " stands in the front rank of English 
classics. Burke holds the same place in English prose that Shakspere 
does in English verse. He united solidity of thought to brilliancy 
of imagination in a degree, perhaps, never attained by any other 
writer. In our prose literature, his '^'^ Eeflections on the Eevolution 

* "The first orator of England/' wrote the noble Catholic Archbishop of Aix, "has 
become the defender of the clergy of France." 
~ " Letter to a noble Lord. ■' 



Edmund Burke, 299 

in France " is the masterpiece of masterpieces. It is a treasury of 
eloquence and political wisdom. Every great conservative Catholic 
statesman since the days of Burke has nourished his mind on this 
book. It is a Christian book. It shows that without religion, civi- 
lization must cease to exist. ^^We know," says Edmund Burke, 
**and, what is better, we feel inwardly, that religion is the basis 
of civil society, and the source of all good and of all comfort." 

^^ Burke corrected his age," says the famous Catholic philosopher, 
Schlegel, " when it was at the height of its revolutionary frenzy ; 
and, without maintaining any system of philosophy, he seems to 
have seen further into the true nature of society, and to have more 
clearly comprehended the effect of religion in connecting individual 
security with national welfare, than any philosopher or any system 
of philosophy of any preceding age. " ' 

This great man loved his native Ireland, and for thirty years his 
Yoice and pen ceased not to demand justice for his oppressed Catho- 
lic countrymen. His last ^'Letter on the Affairs oi Ireland" was 
written but a few months before his death. In it he avows that he 
has not ^^ power of mind or body to bring out his sentiments with 
their natural force; but," adds the grand old statesman, '^ I do not 
i^ish to have it concealed that I am of the same opinion to my last 
breath which I entertained when my faculties were at the best." 
Brave and solemn words, indeed ! 

In conversation Burke was unrivalled. Said Dr. Johnson : "I 
do not grudge Burke's being the first man in the House of Com- 
mons, for he is the first everywhere. He is an extraordinary man. 
He is the only man whose common conversation corresponds with 
the general fame which he has in the world. Take him up where 
you please, he is ready to meet you. No man of sense could meet 
Burke by accident under a gateway to avoid a shower without being 
convinced that he was the first man in England." ^ Grattan also 
declared that he was the greatest man in conversation he ever met. 

*' Shakspere and Burke," said Sir James Mackintosh, " are, if I 
may venture the expression, above talent. Burke's works contain an 
ampler store of political and moral wisdom than can be found in any 
other writer whatever." 

Lord Macaulay styles him '^ the greatest master of eloquence," and 
pronounces him ^*^ superior to every orator, ancient or modern." 

8 "Lectures on the History of Literature," lect. xiv. 
^ Boswell's '' Life of Johnson." 



300 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

But. tbongli a master of eloquence, Edmund Burke, happily, 
had more wisdom than eloquence. ''Xever,*' savs Cazales, ''was 
there a more beautiful alliance between virtue and talents. Mr. 
Burke was superior to the age in which he lived. His prophetic 
ofenius onlv astonished the nation which it should have sfoverned." 

''Burke/' remarked Hamilton, '^ understood everything but 
ofamius: and music'' 

'•'He was,*' said Grattan, '^a prodigy of natm-e and of acquisi- 
tion. He read everything — he saw everything. His knowledge of 
historv amounted to a power of foretelling ; and, when he perceived 
the wild work that was doing in France, that great jDolitical physi- 
cian, cognizant of symptoms, distinguished between the access of 
fever and the force of health, and what others conceived to be the 
vigor of her constitution, lie knew to be the paroxysm of her mad- 
ness ; and thus, prophet-like, he pronounced the destinies of France, 
and in his prophetic fury admonished nations." 

"So long," exclaims an American writer, '* as virtue shall be be- 
loved, wisdom revered, or genius admired, so long will the memory 
of this illustrious exemplar of all be fresh in the world's history ; 
for human nature has too much interest in the preservation of such 
a character ever to permit the name of Edmund Burke to perish 
from the earth." '* 



SPEECH OX AXERICAX TAXATION— 1774. 

Sir: I agree with the honorable gentleman who spoke last, that this 
subject is not new in this House. For nine long years, session after 
session, we have been lashed round and round this miserable circle of 
occasional arguments and temporary expedients. I am sure our 
heads must turn and our stomachs nauseate with them. We have 
had them in every shape ; we have looked at them in every point 
of view. Invention is exhausted ; reason is fatigued ; experience has 
given judgment ; but obstinacy is not yet conquered. 

The honorable gentleman has made one more endeavor to diver- 
sify the form of this disgusting argument. He has thrown out a 
speech composed almost entirely of challenges. Challenges are 
serious things ; and, as he is a man of prudence as well as resolu- 

10 Allibone, " Dictionary of Authors." In person Burke was about fire feet ten inches 
in height, erect and weU-formed. He had a manlv, pleasing countenance. 



Edmtcnd Burke. 301 

tion, I dure say lie has very well weighed those challenges before he 
delivered them. 

He desires to know whether, if we were to repeal this tax, agreea- 
bly to the propositions of the honorable gentleman who made the 
motion, the Americans would not post on this concession, in order 
to make a new attack on the next body of taxes, and whether they 
would not call for a repeal of the duty on wine as loudly as they do 
now for the repeal of the duty on tea. Sir, I can give no security 
on this subject ; but I will do all that I can, and all that can be 
fairly demanded. To the experience which the honorable gentleman 
reprobates in one instant and reverts to in the next, to that expe- 
rience, without the least wavering or hesitation on my part, I 
steadily appeal ; and would to God there were no other arbiter to 
decide on the vote with which the House is to conclude this day I 

When Parliament repealed the Stamp Act in the year 1766, I 
affirm, first, that the Americans did not in consequence of this mea- 
sure call upon you to give up the former parliamentary revenue 
which subsisted in that country, or even any one of the articles 
which compose it. I affirm also that when, departing from the 
m.axims of that repeal, you revived the scheme of taxation, and 
thereby filled the minds of the colonists with new jealousy and all 
sorts of apprehensions, then it was that they quarrelled with the 
old taxes as well as the new ; then it was, and not till then, that they 
questioned all parts of your legislative power, and by the battery of 
such questions have shaken the solid structure of tliis empire to its 
deepest foundations. 

G-entlemen will force the colonists to take the teas. You will 
force them ! Has seven yeai's' struggle been yet able to force them ? 
Oh I but it seems '^we are in the right. The tax is trifling, in ef- 
fect it is rather an exoneration than an imposition ; three-fourths 
of the duty formerly payable on teas exported to America is taken 
off; the place of collection is only shifted; instead of the retention 
of a shilling from the drawback here, it is threepence custom paid 
in America.*' All this, sir, is very true. But this is the very folly 
and mischief of the act. Incredible as it may seem, you know 
that yon have deliberately thrown away a large duty which you held 
secure and quiet in your hands for the vain hope of getting one 
throe-fourths less through every hazard, through certain litigation, 
and possibly through war. 

But they tell you, sir, that your dignity is tied to it. I know 



302 TJie Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland, 

not how it happens, but this dignity of yours is a terrible eucum- 
bi*ance to you ; for it has of late been ever at war with your inter- 
est, vour equity, and every idea of your policy. Show the thing you 
contend for to be reason ; show it to be common sense ; show it to 
be the means of attaining some useful end, and then I am content 
to allow it what dignity you j)lease. But what dignity is derived fi-om 
the perseverance in absurdity is more than I ever could discern. 

Let us, sir, embrace some system or other before we end this ses- 
sion. Do you mean to tax America, and to di'aw from thence a 
j)roductive revenue ? If you do, speak out : name, fix, ascertain 
this revenue ; settle its quantity, define its objects, provide for its col- 
lection, and then fight when yon have something to fight for. If 
you mui'der, rob ; if yen kill, take possession ; and do not appear 
in the character of madmen as well as assassins, violent, vindictive, 
bloody, and tyrannical without an object. But may better coun- 
sels o^uide vou I 

Again and again revert to your old principles ; seek peace and en- 
sure it ; leave America, if she has taxable matter in her, to tax her- 
self. I am not here going into the distinctions of rights, nor at- 
tempting to mark their boundaries. I do not enter into these 
metaphysical distinctions ; I hate the veiy sound of them. Leave 
the Americans as they anciently stood, and these distinctions, bom 
of our unhappy contest, will die along with it. They and we, and 
they and our ancestors, have been haj^py under that system. Let 
the memory of all actions in contradiction to that good old mode 
on both sides be extiusruished for ever. Be content to bind America 
l)y laws of trade ; you have always done it. Let this be your rea- 
son for binding their trade. But do not burden them by taxes; 
vou were not used to do so fi*om the beainnins:. Let this be vour 
reason for not taxing. These are the arguments of states and 
kinirdoms. Leave the rest to the schools ; for there onlv thev mav 
be discussed with safety. But if, intemi>erately, unwisely, fatally, 
you sophisticate, and jDoison the very source of government by ui'g- 
ing subtle deductions and consequences odious to those you govern, 
from the unlimited and illimitable nature of sujDreme sovereignty, 
you will teach them by these means to call that sovereignty itself 
in question. When you drive him hard, the boar ^vill siu'ely turn 
npon the hunters. If that sovereignty and their freedom cannot 
be reconciled, which will they take ? They will cast your sover- 
-eignty in your face. Xobody will be argued into slavery. Sir, let 



Ed 77111 lid B2i7'ke, 303 

the gentlemen on the other side call forth all their ability ; let the 
besc of them get up and tell me icltat one charac'er of liberty the 
Americans have, and what one hrand of slavery they are free from, 
if they are botmd in their property ard industry by all the restraints 
yon can imagine on commerce, and, at the same time, are made 
pack-horses of every tax you choose to impose, without the least 
share in granting them. 

A noble lord," who spoke some time ago, is full of the fire of in- 
gennous youth. He has said that the Americans are our children, 
and how can they revolt against their parent ? He says if they are 
not free in their present state, England is not free, because Man- 
chester and other considerable places are not represented. So then, 
because some towns in England are not represented, America is to 
have no representative at all I They are '' our children,'" but when 
children ask for bread are we not to give a stone ? 

Ask yourselves the question : Will the Americans be content in 
such a state of slavery ? If not, look to the consequences. Reflect 
how you are to govern a people who think they ought to he free and 
thinJc they are not. Your scheme yields no revenue ; it yields no- 
thing but discontent, disorder, disobedience ; and such is the state 
:f America that after wading up to your eyes in blood you could 

Illy JQst end where you l^egon — tliat is, to tax where no revenue is 
;o be found, to — my voice fails me ; my iDcHnation. indeed, carries 
me no further, all is confusion l^eyond ir ! 

On this business of America I confess I am serious, even to sad- 
ness. I have had but one opinion concerning it since I sat and be- 
fore I sat in Parliament. The noble lord ^' will, as usual, probably 
attribute the part taken by me and my friends in this business to a 
desire of getting his places. Let him enjoy this happy and original 
idea. If I deprived him of it, I should take away most of his wit, 

nd all his argument. But I would rather bear the brunt of all his 
wit, and, indeed, blows ninch heavier, than stand ;\nswerable to God 
for embracing a system that tends to the destruction of some of the 
very best and fairest of his works. But I know the map of England 
as well as the noble lord or any other person, and I know that the 
way I take is not the way to preferment. My excellent and honor- 
able friend under me on the floor has trod that road with great toil 
for upwards of twenty years together. He is not yet arrived at the 
noble lord's destination. However, the tracks of my woithy fiiend 

** Lord Caremarthen- - Lord yorth. 



304 The Prose and Poetry of Irelayid. 

are those I have erer wished to follow ; because I know thev lead 
to honor. Long may we tread the same road together, whoever 
may accompany ns. or whoever may laugh at us on our journey ! 



LOnS XVT. A^D HIS QrEEX. MaEIE axtioxette. 

[From •• Beflections oa the Bevolution in France."'] 

HiSTOBY will record that on the morning of the 6th of October, 
1789 J the King and Queen of France, after a day of conftision, alarm, 
dismay, and slaughter, lay down, under the pledged sectirity of 
public faith, to indulge nature in a few hours of respite and troubled, 
melancholy repose- From this sleep the Queen was first startled by 
the voice of the sentinel at her door, who cried out to her to save 
herseK by flight ; that this was the last proof of fidelity he could 
give ; that they were upon him, and he was dead. Instantly he was 
cut down. A band of cruel ruffians and assassins, reeking with his 
blood, rushed into th3 chamber of the Queen, and pierced with a 
hundred strokes of bayonets and poinards the bed from whence this 
persecuted woman had but just time to fly almost naked, and 
through ways unknown to the murderers had escaped to seek refuge 
at the feet of a kinsr and husband not secure of his own life for a 
moment. 

This King, to say no more of him, and this Queen, and their infant 
children (who once would have been the pride and hope of a great and 
generous people) were then forced to abandon the sanctuary of the 
most splendid palace in the world, which they left swimming in blood, 
polluted by massacre, and strewed with scattered hmbs and mutilated 
carcasses. Thence they were conducted into the capital of their 
kingdom. Two had been selected from the unprovoked, imresisted, 
promiscuous slaughter which was made of the gentlemen of birth 
and family who composed the King's body-guard. These two gen- 
tlemen, with all the parade of an execution of justice, were cruelly 
and publicly dragged to the block and beheaded in the great court 
of the palace. Their heads were stuck upon spears, and led the 
procession, whilst the royal captives who followed in the train were 
slowlv moved alonsr, amid the horrid veils and shriUino- screams 
and frantic dances and infamous contumelies, and all the unutter- 
able abominations of the furies of hell, in the abused shape of the 



Edmund Bttrke. 305 

vilest of women. After tliey had been made to taste, drop by drop, 
more than the bitterness of death in the slow torture of a journey 
of twelve miles protracted to six hours, they were, under a guard 
composed of those very soldiers who had thus conducted them 
through this famous triumph, lodged in one of the old palaces of 
Paris, now converted into a Bastile for kings. 

Influenced by the inborn feelings of my nature, and not being 
illuminated by a single ray of the new-sprung modern light, I con- 
fess that the exalted rank of the persons suffering, and particularly 
the sex, the beauty, and the amiable qualities of the descendant of 
so many kings and emperors, with the tender age of royal infants, 
insensible only through infancy and innocence of the cruel outrages 
to which their parents were exposed, instead of being a subject of 
exultation, adds not a little to my sensibility on that most melan- 
choly occasion. 

I hear that though Louis XVI. supported himself, he felt much 
on that shameful occasion. As a man, it became him to feel for his 
wife and children, and the faithful guards of his person, that were 
massacred in cold blood about him ; as a prince, it became him ta 
feel for the strange and frightful transformation of his civilized 
subjects, and to be more grieved for them than to be solicitous for 
himself. It derogates little from his fortitude, while it adds infi- 
nitely to the honor of his humanity. I hear, and I rejoice to hear, 
that the great lady, the other object of the triumph, has borne that 
day, and that she bears all the succeeding days, that she bears the im- 
prisonment of her husband, and her own captivity, and the exile of 
her friends, and the insulting adulation of addresses, and the whole 
weight of her accumulated wrongs, with a serene patience, in a 
manner suited to her rank and race, and becoming the offspring of 
a sovereign distinguished for her piety and her courage ; that, like 
her, she has lofty sentiments ; that she feels with the dignity of a 
Roman matron ; that in the last extremity she will save herself from 
the last disgrace ; and that, if she must fall, she will fall by no ig- 
noble hand. 

It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of 
France, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles, and surely never lighted 
on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful 
vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheer- 
ing the elevated sphere she just began to move in, glittering like 
the morning star, full of life, and splendor, and joy. Oh ! what a 



3o6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

revolution, and what a heart must I have to contemplate without 
emotion that elevation and that fall ! Little did I dream, when she 
added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respect- 
ful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote 
against disgrace concealed in that bosom ; little did I dream that I 
should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation 
of gallant men, in a nation of men of honor and of cavaliers. I 
thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards 
to avenge even a look tliat threatened her with insult. But the 
age of chivalry is gone ; that of sophisters, economists, and calcu- 
lators has succeeded, and the glory of Europe is extinguished for 
ever. Never, never more shall we behold that generous loyalty to 
rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that 
subordination of the heart which kept alive, even in servitude 
itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, 
the chief defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and 
heroic enterprise is gone ! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, 
that chastity of honor, which felt a stain like a wound, which in- 
spired courage, whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled what- 
ever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil by 
losing all its grossness. 



LETTER TO A NOBLE LOilD— 1796." 

My Lord i I could hardly flatter myself with the hope that so very 
early in the season I should have to acknowledge obligations to the 
Duke of Bedford and to the Earl of Lauderdale. These noble persons 
have lost no time in conferring upon me that sort of honor which 
it is alone within their competence, and which it is certainly most 
congenial to their nature and their manners, to bestow. 

To be ill spoken of, in whatever language they speak, by the 
zealots of the new sect in philosophy and politics, of which these 
noble persons think so charitably, and of which others think so 
justly, to me is no matter of uneasiness or surprise. To have in- 
curred the displeasure of the Duke of Orleans or the Duke of Bed- 

13 This letter was called forth by the shameful personal attacks made upon the vener- 
able writer and his pension, in the House of Lords, by the Duke of Bedford and the Earl 
of Lauderdale in 1796. The above is simply a few of the best passages in the original, 
which would fill over fifty pages of the present volume. 



Edmund Burke. 307 

ford, to fall under the censure of Citizen Brissot, or of his friend, the 
Earl of Lauderdale, I ought to consider as proofs not the least sat- 
isfactory that I have produced some part of the effect I proposed 
by my endeavors. I liave labored hard to earn what the noble 
lords are generous enough to pay. Personal offence I have given 
them none. The j^art they take against me is from zeal to the 
cause. It is well. It is perfectly well. I have to do homage to 
their justice. I have to thank the Bedfords and the Lauderdales 
for having so faithfully and so fully acquitted towards me whatever 
arrear of debt was left undischarged by the Pries tleys and the 
Paines. 

But will they not let me remain in obscurity and inaction ? Are 
they apprehensive that if an atom of me remains the sect has some- 
thing to fear ? Must I be annihilated lest, like old John Zi sea's, 
my skin should be made into a drum to animate Europe to eternal 
battle against a tyranny that threatens to overwhelm all Europe and 
all the human race ? 

In one thing I can excuse the Duke of Bedford for his attack 
upon me and my mortuary j)ension. He cannot readily compre- 
hend the transaction he condemns. What I have obtained is the 
fruit of no bargain, the production of no intrigue, the result of no 
compromise, the effect of no solicitation. The first suggestion of it 
never came from me, mediately or immediately, to his Majesty or 
any of his ministers. It was long known that the instant my en- 
gagements would permit it, and before the heaviest of all calamities 
had for ever condemned me to obscurity and sorrow, I had resolved 
on a total retreat. I had executed that design. I was entirely out 
of the way of serving or of hurting any statesman or any party 
when the ministers so generously and so nobly carried into effect 
the spontaneous bounty of the Crown. Both descriptions have acted 
as became them. When I could no longer serve them, the ministers 
have considered my situation. When I could no longer hurt them, 
the revolutionists have trampled on my infirmity. My gratitude, I 
trust, is equal to the manner in which the benefit was conferred. It 
came to me, indeed, at a time of life and in a state of mind and 
body in which no circumstance of fortune could afford me any real 
pleasure. But this was no fault in the royal donor or in his minis- 
ters, who were pleased in acknowledging the merits of an invalid 
servant of the public, to assuage the sorrows of a desolate old man. 

Loose libels ought to be passed by in silence and contempt. By 



3oS The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

me they have been so always. I knew that as long as I remained 
in public I should live down the calumnies of malice and the judg- 
ment of ignorance. If I happened to be now and then in the 
wrong, as who is not. like all other men. I must bear the consequence 
of my faults and my mistakes. The libels of the present day are 
just of the same stuff as the libels of the past. But they derive 
an importance from the rank of the persons they come from and 
the gi-avity of the place where they were uttered. In some way or 
another I ought to take some notice of them. To assert myself 
thus traduced is not vanity or arrogance. It is a demand of justice ; 
it is a demonstration of gratitude. If I am unworthy, the minis- 
ters are worse than prodigal. On that hyjx) thesis I perfectly agree 
with the Duke of Bedford. 

But I decline his Grace's jurisdiction as a judge. I challenge the 
Duke of Bedford as a juror to pass upon the value of my services. 
AVhatever his natural parts may be, I cannot recognize in his few 
and idle years the competence to judge of my long and laborious 
life. If I can help it, he shall not be on the inquest of my quantum 
meruit. Poor rich man I he can hardly know anything of public 
industry in its exertions, or can estimate its compensations when its 
work is done. I have no doubt of his Grace's readiness in all the 
calctdations of vulgar arithmetic, but I shrewdly suspect that he 
is little studied in the theory of moral proportions, and has never 
learned the rule of three in the arithmetic of j)ohcy and state. 

His Grace is pleased to aggraTate my guilt by charging my ac- 
ceptance of his Majesty's grant as a departure from my ideas and 
the spirit of my conduct with regard to economy. If it be, my 
ideas of economy were false and ill-founded. But they are the 
Duke of Bedford's ideas of economy I have contradicted, and not 
my own. If he means to allude to certain bDls brought in by me 
on a message from the throne in 1TS2, I tell him that there is no- 
thing in my conduct that can contradict either the letter or the 
spirit of those acts. Does he mean the Pay-Ofl&ce Act ? I take it 
for granted he does not. The act to which he alludes is, I sup- 
pose, the Establishment Act. I greatly doubt whether his Grace 
has ever read the one or the other. The first of these systems cost 
me, with every assistance which my then situation gave me, pains 
incredible. I found an opinion common through all the ofl&ces and 
general in the public at large that it wotild prove impossible to re- 
form aud methodize the office of Paymaster-GeneraL I undertook 



Edmtcnd Bicrke. 309 

it, however, and I succeeded in my undertaking. Whether the 
military service or whether tlie general economy of our finance have 
profited by that act I leave to those who are acquainted with the 
army and with the treasury to judge. 

I was not, like his G-race of Bedford, swaddled and rocked and 
dandled into a legislation ; ^' Nitor in adversum'^ is the motto for 
a man like me. I joossessed not one of the qualities, nor cultivated 
one of the arts, that recommend men to the favor and 2)rotection of 
the great. I was not made for a minion or a tool. As little did I 
follow the trade of winning the hearts by imposing on the under- 
standings of the j^eople. At every step of my progress in life (for 
in every step was I traversed and opposed), and at every turnpike I 
met, I was obliged to show my passport and again and again to j)rove 
my sole title to the honor of being useful to my country by a proof 
that I was not wholly unacquainted with its laws and the whole 
system of its interest, both abroad and at home. Otherwise no 
rank, no toleration even, for me. I had no arts but manly arts. 
On them I have stood, and, please God, in spite of the Duke of 
Bedford and the Earl of Lauderdale, to the last gasjo I will stand. 

His Grace may think as meanly as he will of my deserts in the 
far greater part of my conduct in life. It is free for him to do so. 
There will always be some difference of opinion in the value of po- 
litical services. But there is one merit of mine which he, of all men 
living, ought to be the last to call in question. I have supported 
with very great zeal, and I am told with some degree of success, 
those opinions, or, if his Grace likes another ex23ression better, those 
old prejudices which buoy up the ponderous mass of his nobility, 
wealth, and titles. I have omitted no exertion to prevent him and 
them from sinking to that level to which the meretricious French 
faction, his Grace at least coquets with, omit no exertion to reduce 
both. I have done all I could to discountenance their enquiries 
into the fortunes of those who hold large portions of wealth with- 
out any apparent merit of their own. I have strained every nerve 
to keep the Duke of Bedford in that situation which alone makes 
him my superior. Your Lordship has been a witness of the use he 
makes of that pre-eminence. 

The awful state of the time, and not myself or my own justifica- 
tion, is my true object in what I now write, or in wiiat I shall ever 
write or say. It little signifies to the world what becomes of such 
things as me, or even as the Duke of Bedford. 



o 



lo The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 



TTliy will his Grace^ by attacking me, force me reluctantly to 
compare my little merit with that which obtained from the Crown 
those prodigies of profuse donation by which he tramples on the 
mediocrity of humble and laborious individuals ? I would willinsr- 
Ij leave him to the Herald's College, which the j^hilosophy of the 
sans-culottes (prouder by far than all the G-aiters and Xarrays and 
Clarencieux and Eouge Dragons that ever pranced in a j^roc-ession 
of what his friends call aristocrats and despots) will abolish with 
contumely and scorn. These historians, recorders, and blazoners 
of virtues and arms differ wholly from that other description of 
historians who never assign any act of politicians to a good motive. 
These gentle historians, on the contrary, di]o their j^ens in nothing" 
but the milk of human kindness. They seek no further for merit 
than the preamble of a patent, or the inscription of a tomb. "With 
them every man created a peer is first a hero ready made. They 
judge of every man's capacity for office by the offices he has filled, 
and the more offices the more abilitv. Everv s^eneral officer with 
them is a Marlborough ; every statesman a Burleigh ; every judge 
a Murray or a Torke. They who. when ahve, were laughed at or 
pitied by all their acquaintance make as good a figure as the best of 
them in the pages of Guillim, Edmondson, and Collins. 

Had it pleased God to continue to me hopes of succession, I 
should have been, according to my mediocrity and the medi- 
ocrity of the age I live in, a sort of founder of a family. I should 
have left a son who, in all the points in which jDcrsonal merit can lie 
viewed, in science, in erudition, in genius, in taste, in honor, in 
generosity, in humanity, and in every Hberal sentiment and every 
hberal accomplishment, would not have shown himself inferior to 
the Duke of Bedford, or to any of those whom he traces in his line. 
His Grace veiy soon would have wanted all plausibiHty in his attack 
upon that provision which belonged more to mine than to me. He 
would soon have supplied every deficiency and symmetrized every 
disproportion. It would not have been for that successor to resori 
to any stagnant, wasting reservoir of merit in me or in my ancestiy. 
He had in himself a sahent hving spring of generous and manly 
action ; every day he lived he would have repurchased the bonnty 
of the Crown, and ten times more if ten times more he had re- 
ceived. He was made a j^tiblic creatui-e, and had no enjoyment 
whatever but in the performance of some dutv. At this exigent 
moment the loss of a finished man is not easily supplied. 



Edmtcnd Btcrke. 311 

But a DisjDoser whose power we are little able to resist, and 
whose wisdom it behooves us not at all to dispute, has ordained it in 
another mariner, and (whatever my querulous weakness might sug- 
gest) a far better. The storm has gone over me, and I lie like one 
of those old oaks which the late hurricane has scattered about me. 
I am stripped of all my honors ; I am torn up by the roots, and lie 
prostrate on the earth. There, and jDrtstrate there, I most un- 
feignedly recognize the divine justice, and, in some degree, submit 
to it. But whilst I humble myself before God, I do not know that 
it is forbidden to repel the attacks of unjust and inconsiderate meu. 
The patience of Job is proverbial. After some of the convulsive 
struggles of our irritable nature, he submitted liimself and repented 
in dust and ashes. But even so I do not find him blamed for 
reprehending, and with a considerable degree of verbal asperity, 
those ill-natured neighbors of his who visited his dunghill to read 
moral, political, and economical lectures on his misery. I am 
alone. 1 have none to meet my enemies in the gate. Indeed, my 
Lord, I greatly deceive myself if in this hard season I would give a 
peck of refuse wheat for all that is called fame and honor in the 
world. This is the appetite of but a few. It is a luxury ; it is a 
privilege ; it is an indulgence for those who are at their ease. But 
we are all of us made to shun disgrace as we are made to shrink 
from pain, and poverty, and disease. It is an instinct, and under 
the direction of evil, instinct is always in the risfht. I live in an 
inverted order. They who ought to have succeeded me are gone 
before me. They who should have been to me as posterity are in 
the place of ancestors. 

Pardon, my Lord, the feeble garrulity of age. At my years we 
live in retrospect alone ; and, wholly unfitted for the society of 
vigorous life, we enjoy the best balm to all wounds — the consolation 
of friendship in those only whom we have lost for ever. 

I have the honor to be, etc.. 

Edmuxd Bueke. 



LETTER TO THE CATHOLIC ARCHBISHOP OF AIX." 

LoxDOX, July 15, 1T91. 
Sir : It is with gi^eat satisfaction to me that the generous victims 
of injustice and tyranny accept in good part the homage which I 

** The warmest friend that the exiled and persecuted Catholic clergy of France met on 
reaching the shores of England was the generous-hearted lurke. Through the Arch- 



3 1 2 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

have offered to their virtues. It is a distinction wliicli I would not 
have had occasion to merit from the clergy of France in the time of 
their credit and splendor. Your Church, the intelligence of which 
was the ornament of the Christian world in its prosperity, is now 
more brilliant in the moment of its misfortunes to the eyes which 
are capable of judging of it, Xever did so great a number of men 
display a constancy so inflexible, a disinterestedness so manifest, a 
humility so magnanimous, so much dignity in their patience, and 
so much elevation in their sentiments of honor. Ae^es have not 
furnished so many noble examples as France has produced in the 
space of two years. It is odious to search in antiquity for the merit 
we admire, and to be insensible to that which iDasses under our 
eyes. France is in a dej^lorable condition, both in its political and 
moral state ; but it seems to be in the order of the general economy 
of the world that when the STeatest and most detestable vices domi- 
neer, the most eminent and distinguished virtues raise their heads 
more proudly. Such is not the time for mediocrity. We may have 
some diversity in our opinions, but we have no difference in jorinci- 
ples. There is but one kind of honor and virtue in the world; it 
consists in sacrificing every other consideration to the sentiments of 
our duty, of right, and of piety. It is this which the clergy of France 
have done. 

One thing I see distinctly, because the bishops of France have 
proved it by their example, and that is that they have made known 
to all the orders and to all the classes of citizens the advantages 
which even religion can derive fi*om the alliance of its own proper 
dignity with the character which illustrious birth and the sentiment 
of honor gives to man. 

I do not know if it is to the comjilaisance of your Lordship that 
I owe the cliefs-cVceuvre of ingenuity, intelligence, and superior 
eloquence, varied as the occasions require with different dis- 
courses and letters, which I from time to time receive. They 
are the works of a gi'eat statesman, of a great prelate, and of a man 
versed in the science of administration. We cannot be astonished 
that the state, the clergy, the finances, and the trade of the king- 
dom should be ruined when the author of these works, instead of 
having an important share in the councils of his country, is perse- 
cuted and undone. The proscription of such men is enough to 

bishop of Aix the Bishops of France conveyed their thanks to him, in reply to which 
the great statesman wrote the above. 



Edmu7id Bicrke. 313 

cover a wliole peo^^le witli eternal reproach. Those who persecute 
them have by this one act done more injury to their country in de- 
priving it of their services than a milhon of men of their own 
standard can ever repair, even when they shall be dis^DOsed to build 
upon the ruins they have made. 

Maintain, sir, the courage which you have hitherto shown, and 
be persuaded that, though the world is not worthy of you and your 
colleaorues, we are not insensible of the honor which you do our 
common nature. I have the honor to be, ^ery ti'uly. 

Edmuxd Bueke. 

LETTER TO DR. FRAXEXLN'.-^ 

LoxDOX, Chakles Steeet, February 28, 1782. 

Deae Sie: Your most obliging letter demanded an early answer. 
It has not received the acknowledsfment so iustlv due to it. But 
Providence has well supplied my deficiencies, and the delay of an- 
swer has made it much more satisfactory than at the time of my 
receipt of your letter I dared to promise myself it could be. 

I congratulate you, as the friend of America, on the resolution of 
the House of Commons, carried by a majority of nineteen, at two 
o'clock this morning, in a very full house. It was the declaration of 
two hundred and fifty-four: I think it was the opinion of the whole. 
I trust it will lead to a speedy peace between the two branches of 
the Euglish nation, perhaps to a general peace, and that our hajDj^i- 
ness may be an introduction to that of the world at large. T most 
sincerely congratulate you on the event. 

I wish I could say that I had accomplished my commission. 
Difficulties remain. But as Mr. Laurens is released from his con- 
finement, and has recovered his health tolerably, he may wait, I 
hope, without a deal of inconvenience, for the final adjustment of 
his troublesome business. He is an exceedingly agi-eeable and 
honorable man. I am much obliged to you for the honor of his 
acquaintance. He speaks of you as I do, and is perfectly sensible 
• >f your warm and friendly interposition in his favor. 
I have the honor to be, with the highest possible esteem and regard, 

dear sir, your most faithful and obedient servant, 

Edmuxd Bueke. 

1^ This letter vas in ansTrer to one from FranMin requesting Burke to interest himself 
in negotiating the exchange of Henry Laurens, then in the Tower, for Gen. Burgovne. 
As will be seen, it announces the happy termination of the long and gallant struggle of 
- merica for complete independence. 



RICHARD BRTNSLEY SHERIDAN, 

" "VThatever Sheridan has done or chosen to do has been, j;«r excellence, always 
the best of its kind. He has written the best comedy, the best opera, the best 
farce, the best address, and, to crown all, delivered the very best oration ever 
conceived or heard in this country.'" — Lord Byron. 

" His mind was an essence compounded with art 

From the finest and best of all other men's powers ; 
He ruled like a wizard the world of the heart, 

And called up its sunshine or drew down its showers." 

— Moore. 

RICHAED BEIXSLEY SHEEIDAX, one of the most singularly 
gifted men of modern times, was born in Dorset Street, Dnb- 
lin, in 1751. He belonged to a family which appeared to possess 
an hereditary monopoly of genius. His grandfather was a great 
wit, classical scholar, and friend of Swift. His father, Thomas 
Sheridan, was a noted actor, elocutionist, and lexicographer, whose 
*' G-eneral Dictionary of the English Language "' was, we helieve, 
the first work in which careful attention was given to the best pro- 
nunciation of our language. Richard's mother was also a lady of 
uncommon mental gifts and rare personal attractions. In her day 
she was a writer of distinction. 

The lad in his seventh year was placed under the tuition of ^Ir. 
Samuel Whyte, of Grafton Street, Dublin. Here he got many a 
sound birching, and was regarded as " a most impenetrable dunce." ^ 
He was next sent to HaiTow,^ but Richard did not injure himself 
much by overs tudy. Still, he contrived to win the affection, and 
even admiration, of the whole school by his frank and genial ways, 
and by the occasional gleams of su^Derior intellect which broke 
through all the indolence and indifference of his manner.^ 

" I saw in him," writes the celebrated. Dr. Parr, then one of the 
teachers in Harrow, '' vestiges of a superior intellect. His eye, his 

1 ''It may be consoling," writes Moore, "to parents who are in the first crisis of im- 
patience at the sort of hopeless stupidity whic]! some children exhibit, to know that the 
davrn of Sheridan's intellect was as dull and unpromising as its meridian day was 
bright."' — " Memoirs of Sheridan." 

2 A famous English academy. 

8 Stainforth, ' Life of Sheridan."' 

314 



Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 315 

countenance, his general manuer, were striking. His answers to 
any common question were prompt and acnte. We knew the 
esteem and even admiration which somehow or other all his school- 
fellows felt for him. He was mischievous enough, but his pranks 
were accompanied by a sort of Yiyacity and cheerfulness which de- 
lighted Sumner ^ and myself.*' '" 

In his eighteenth year Richard was recalled from Harrow. 
Though at this time he had made some progress in Greek, it is 
said he was unable to sj^ell English. He never attended any uni- 
versity. The limited means of his father, who then resided at 
Bath, England, would not permit such a stej). 

Sheridan's life henceforth reads more like a romance than a sober, 
matter-of-fact biography. He began it as a ho23eless literary adven- 
turer. Yet nothino: failed him. Position, fame, and fortune he 
grasped at as if they were his birthright. ^' The poor, unknown 
youth,*' writes Taine, •'• wretched translator of an tmreadable Greek 
sophist, who at twenty walked about Bath in a red waistcoat and a 
cocked hat, destitute of hope and ever conscious of the emptiness of 
his pockets, gained the heart of the most admired beauty and musi- 
cian * of her time, carried her off from ten rich, elegant, titled 
adorers, fought with the best hoaxed of the ten, beat him, and car- 
ried by storm the curiosity of the public. Then, challenging giory 
and wealth, he placed successively on the stage the most diverse and 
the most applatided di-amas, comedies, farces, opera, serious verse ; 
he bousrht and worked a laroe theati'e without a farthius". inau2"u- 
i"ated a reign of successes and pecuniary advantages, and led a life 
of elegance amid the enjoyments of social and domestic joys, sur- 
rounded by universal admiration and wonder. Thence, aspiring yet 
higher, he conquered power, entered the House of Commons, 
showed himself a match for the first orators, opposed Pitt, accused 
Warren Hastings, supported Fox, sustained with eclat, disinterest- 
edness, and constancy a most difficult and generous part, became 
one of three or four of the most noted men in England, an equal of 
the greatest lords, the friend of a royal prince, in the end Ee- 

* Dr. Sumner, the Principal. 

^ Letter on Sheridan's youth. 

* The celebrated Miss Linler. who was but sixteen when Sheridan first met her. She 
is said to hare possessed esqiiisite personal charms, and. in spite of her profession as an 
actress, maintained a character of no ordinary beauty and brightness. To Sheridan she 
I>roved a wise, devoted wife. After her death WiLkes wrote that she was '' the most mo- 
clest, pleasing, and delicate flower he had ever seen.' 



o 



1 6 TJu Prose and P:::ry of Ireland, 



ceiver-General of the Duchy of Cornwall and Trea5iLrer to the Fleet. 
Jn every career he took the lead." ' 

Sheridan's principal plays are *'* The Rirais ' — ^produced in 1TT5 — 
'•' The Duenna," " The School for Scandal/' and "•' The Critic," which 
appeared during the five following years- '-'All these plays are in 
prose, and all, with the exception of ^ The Duenna,' reflect con- 
temporary manners. In the creation of comic character and the 
conduct of comic dialogue Sheridan has never been surpassed. His 
wit flashes' evermore. In such a play as * The Eivals ' the reader 
is kept in a state of continual hilarious delight by a profusion of 
sallies, rejoinders, blunders, contrasts which seem to exhaust all 
the resotirces of the ludicrous. J/rs. Malapropx • parts of speech ' 
will rai^ the laughter of unborn generations, and the choleric, 
generous old father wOl never find a more perfect representation 
than iS'ir Anfhony Absolute. In the evolution of plots he is less 
happy : nevertheless, in this respect also he succeeded admirably in 
' The School for Scandal,' which is by common consent regarded as 
the most perfect of his plays, and is still an established favorite in 
our theatres." * 

The ••'School for Scandal" was translated into German, and 
some years ago had a good run in the cities along the Bhine and 
the Danube, The highest critics agree in pronouncing it the iesi 
comedy in the English hmguage. 

*• Sheridan," says Hazlitt, ••'has been justly called a dramatic 
star of the first masrnitude : and. indeed, amonor the comic writers 
of the last centnrv he shines like Hesperus among the lesser 
lights." * 

'•The dramas of Sheridan,*' writes J. TT. Croker, ''have placed 
him at the head of the genteel comedy of England." " 

Sheridan made his first speech in the House of Commons on the 
20th of Xovember, 1780. He was heard with particular attention. 
After he had spoken he went to the gallery to his friend, "VToodfall, 
and, with much anxiety, asked what he thought of this first at- 
tempt, Woodfall, with unusual frankness, remarked that he did not 
think Parliamentary speaking was in Sheridan's line. For a mo- 
ment the latter rested his head upon his hands, and then warmly 
exclaimed : *' It is in me, and it shall come out I "' 

^ ** Th T H : " : - ''^gHsJi litezatoze.** 

' Ar:: :: ::^:.i:^ f Tlingliiph Lit eratm e, HistoBieal and CiilaeM.*' 

* • It :: ^t; :z. :_- Z-^'.ish Comie Wzftaxs," Lfictnze TiiL 



Richard Bj'iiislcy Shci'idan. 317 

The autlior of **The School for Scandal "was, however, seTcn 
years in Parliament l^efore he gained any repntation as a great ora- 
tor. The genius and energy of Edmund Burke brought on the 
famous impeachment of Warren Hastings. This was the event 
that called forth all the latent ability, dazzling wit, scorching sar- 
casm, and splendid eloquence of Sheridan. To him was allotted 
the task of bringing forward in the Hotise of Commons the charge 
relating to the spoliation of the Begum Prince^es of Oude. This 
speech was delivered on the 7th of February, 178T. It occupied 
five hotirs and a half in the delivery. Burke declared it to be 
''the most astonish :i-_ r^ori; of eloquence, argument, and wit 
united of which there was any record or tradition.*' Fox said *'* all 
that he had ever heard, all that he had ever read, when compared 
wirh it, dwindled into nothing, and vanished like vapor before the 
Etm." And even Pitt acknowledged ''that it stirpassed all the elo- 
quence of ancient and modem times, and possessed everything that 
genius or art cotdd furnish to agitate or control the human miud.*' 
Unhappily, this masterpiece of Sheridan's eloquence was pooriy re- 
ported, so much so that Lord Macatilay remarks that "it may be 
said to be wholly lost, but which was without doubt the most elab- 
orately brilliant of all the productions of his ingenious mind." ^'^ 

Sheridan's closing speech against Hastings was delivered in West- 
minster Hall on the 3d, 6th, 10th, and 13th of June, 1T8S. 0:i 
the very last night a remarkable evidence of his unrivalled ability 
— ^an honor such as no man in Europe or America, past or present, 
can claim — was exhibited. *• The galleries of the English House of 
Lords were filled to overflowing to hear what all expected would be 
a masterpiece of eloquence. Peers and peeresses wexe glad to obtain 
seats early in the day, in which they continued nearly the entire 
night, tumidtuously overcrowded. On the same night his play, 
' The School for Scandal,' the Jie^t comedv on the British starre, 
was playing at one theatre, and his opera, 'The Duenna,' the 
Jc?f in its line on the stage, was performing at another, while the 
gifted author was himseK delivering to the entranced British 
senate the most eloquent harangue ever delivered within its 
walls." ^' 

Sheridan's conversational powers were remarkable. His wir and 
humor were only equalled by his good temper, and he was regarded 

u "EssaysL" « Xrc-ej lEZsioiyof Ireland.' 



3 1 8 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

as tlie delight of the social circles in which he moved. Fox de- 
clared that he was the wittiest man he had ever known. Indeed, 
men spent whole nights in listening to him. 

On one occasion the anthor of ^^ The School for Scandal" made 
his appearance in a new pair of boots. These attracted the notice 
of some of his friends. *'^Xow guess," said he, ^' how I came by 
these boots.'' Many prohalle gnesses then took place. ^'^Xo/' 
said Sheridan, "yon have not hit it, and never will; I bought them 
and paid for them." 

One day Sheridan met two royal dukes in St. James Street, and 
the younger flippantly remarked: "\ say. Sherry, we have just 
been discussing whether you are a greater fool or rogue. "What is 
your ojnnion, old boy ? " Sheridan bowed, smiled, and, as he took 
each of them by the arm, quietly replied • " Why, faith, I believe 
Fm between both ! " 

Some mention having been made in his presence of a tax upon 
milestones, he said : " Such a tax would be unconstitutional, as they 
were a race that could not meet to remonstrate." 

Once, being on a Parliamentary committee, Sheridan arrived when 
all the members were assembled and seated, and about to commence 
business. In vain he looked around for a seat, and then, with a 
bow and a quaint twinkle in his eyes, said: " Will any gentleman 
move that I might take the chair ? " 

Hearing that Gifford, the somewhat savage editor of The Quar- 
terly Ileview, had boasted of his power of conferring and distribut- 
ing literary reputation, Sheridan remarked: '^Yerytrue; and in 
the jDresent instance he has done it so thoroughly that lie lias none 
left for liimself.'^ 

In a good-natured way he one day remarked to a creditor who 
demanded instant payment of a long-standing debt with interest : 
" My dear sir, you know it is not my interest to pay the 'principal, 
nor is it my principle to pay the interest. " 

Lord Lauderdale happening to say that he would repeat some 
good thing of Sheridan's, the latter said: '^Pra}' don't; a johe in 
your month is no laughing matter.'^ 

The brilliant but unhappy Sheridan's parliamentary career drew 
to a close in 1812. Among the last sentences uttered by him in 
the House were the following brave and beautiful words : " My ob- 
jection to the i^resent ministry is that they are avowedly arrayed 
and embodied against a principle — that of concession to the Catho- 



RicJiard Brinsley Sheridan. 319 

lies of Ireland ^' — which I think, and must always think, essential 
to the safety of this empire. I will never give my vote to any Ad- 
ministration that opposes the question of Catholic emancipation. 
I will not consent to receive a fniiough upon that particular ques- 
tion, even though a ministry were carrying every other that I 
wished. In fine. I think the situation of Ireland a jiaramount con- 
sideration. If they were to be the last words I should ever utter in 
tliis House, I should say : ' Be just to Ireland, as you value your 
own honor ; be just to Ireland, as you value your own peace.' *' 

Parliament was dissolved in SejHember, 1S12. Sheridan again 
went to the polls, but was defeated. This completed his niin. 
The sticcess and fortune which had smiled on his younger years 
frowned on his old age. Tor him all ordinary rtiles were reversed. 
At forty-four debts began to shower upon him ; at sixty he was a 
hopeless bankruf)t. TVhat was the cause of his misfortune ? The 
truth must be told ; poor Sheridan had drank to excess. The 
lottle had blighted his bright genius and his hopeful life. He — the 
sifted and brilliant Sheridan — closed his last davs in the shades of 
poverty and neglect. Oh I what a lesson. Forsaken by the false 
great ones who had basked around him in the sunshine of pros- 
l^erity, Eichard Brinsley Sheridan died in London on July T, 1816, 
in his sixty-fifth year. The titled knaves who had heartlessly 
shunned the great man's death-bed now crowded round to partake 
of his glory as he was laid in the gi'ave. In the worldly sense of the 
word, his funeral was *' grand.'*' Barons and lords, marquises and 
dukes followed in the train. ^loore wrote : 

' Oh I it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hoUoTv 

And friendships so false in the great and high bom : 
To think what a long line of titles may follow 
The relics of him who died friendless and lorn I 

" How prond they can press to the funeral array 

Of him whom they shunned in his sickness and soitow — 
How bailiffs may seize his last blanket " to-day 
Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to-morrow ! " 

He was buried in Westminster Abbey, iu the Poet's Comer. 
Sheridan, when young, possessed a manly, handsome counte- 

^3 Sheridan, it must be remembered, was not a Catholic. 

1^ ''A sheriff's ofiicer arrested the dying man in his bed. and was about to cany him ofE 
in his blankets, when Doctor Bain interfered, and bv threatening the officer with the re- 
sponsibility he must incur if his prisoner should expire on the way, averted this out- 
rage."" — Stainforths "•Life of Sheridan." 



320 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

nance, but in his later years his eyes were the only testimonials of 
beauty that remained to him. In person he was about the middle 
size, strong, and well proportioned. 

Lord Byron's monody on Sheridan terminates "^hus : 

" Lon^ shall we seek his likeness, long in vain, 
And turn to all of him which may remain, 
Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, 
And broke the die in moulding Sheridan ! " 

We cannot better conclude this sketch than in the wise and elo- 
quent words of his illustrious countrywoman, the Nun of Kenrnare: 
*^ Had not Sheridan's besetting sin degraded and incapacitated him, 
it is probable he would have been Prime Minister on the death of Fox. 
At the early age of forty he was a confirmed drunkard. The master 
mind which had led a senate was clouded over by the fumes of an 
accursed spirit; the brilliant eyes that had captivated a million 
hearts were dimmed and bloodshot ; the once noble brain, which 
had used its hundred gifts with equal success and ability, was de- 
prived of all j)ower of acting ; the tongue whose potent spell had 
entranced thousands was scarcely able to articulate. Alas ! and a 
thousand times alas ! that man can thus mar his Maker's work, and 
stamp ruin and wretchedness where a wealth of mental power had 
been giyen to reign supreme ! " ^^ 



SELECTIONS FROM SHERIDAN'S WORKS. 

DEY BE THAT TEAK. 

Dey be that tear, my gentlest love. 
Be hush'd that struggling sigh, 

Nor seasons, day, nor fate shall prove 
More fixed, more true than I. 

Hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear. 

Cease boding doubt, cease anxious fear — 
Dry be that tear. 

Ask'st thou how long my love will stay. 
When all that's new is past ? 

How long, ah ! Delia ? '' can I say 
How long my life will last ? 

" " niustrated m-tory of Ireland." 

IS M ss Elizabeth Linley, whom he afterwards raarried. 



Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 321 

Dry be that tear, be hush'd that sigh, 
At least I'll love thee till I die — 

Hush'd be that sigh. 

And does that thought affect thee too, 

The thought of Sylvio's '' death— 
That he who only breathed for you 

Must yield that faithful breath ? 
Hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear, 
IsoY let us lose our heaven here — 
Dry be that tear. 



TO THE EECOKDI]SrG AXGEL. 

Cherub of Heaven that from thy secret stand 

Dost note the follies of each mortal here. 
Oh ! if Eliza's '® steps employ thy hand. 

Blot the sad legend with a mortal tear. 
Xor when she errs, through passion's wild extreme, 

Mark then her course, nor heed each trifling wrong ; 
Nor when her sad attachment is her theme 

Note down the transports of her erring tongue. 
But when she sighs for sorrow not her own. 

Let that dear sigh to mercy's cause be given. 
And bear that tear to her Creator's throne 

Which glistens in the eye upraised to Heaven ! 



THE LEAEKED (!) DIALOGUE BETWEEN MRS. MALAPROP AND SIR 

ANTHONY ABSOLUTE. 

FKOM ^^THE RIVALS," ACT I. SCEXE II. 

Mrs. Malaiwoy and old Sir Anthony enter Lydia's room, 

Mrs. Malaprop. There, Sir Anthony, there sits the dehberate 
simpleton who wants to disgrace her family and lavish herself on a 
fellow not worth a shilling. 

Lydia {Mrs. Malapropos niece). Madam, I thought you once— 
Mrs. Malaprop. You thought, miss ! I don't know any busi- 

" Sheridan. ^^ Mrs. Elizabeth Sheridan, nee Linley. 



32 2 T/ie Jrrose aiid Poetry of Ireland, 

ness yoii have to think at all; thought does not become a young 
woman. But the point we would request of you is that you will 
promise to forget this fellow — to illiterate him, I say, quite from 
your memory. 

Lydia. Ah ! madam, our memories are independent of our wills. 
It is not so easy to forget. 

Mrs. Malaprop. But I say it is, miss ; there is nothing on earth 
so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it. I'm sure I 
have as much forgot your poor, dear nncle as if he had never 
existed ; and I thought it my duty so to do ; and let me tell you, 
Lydia, these violent memories don't become a young woman. 

Sir AisrTH02i5"T. Why, sure she don't pretend to remember what 
she's ordered not I — ay, this comes of her reading. 

Mrs. Malaprop. ]^ow, don't attempt to extirpate yourself from 
the matter ; you know I have proof controvertible of it. But tell 
me, will you promise to do as you're bid ? Will you take a hus- 
band of your friend's choosing ? 

Lydia. Madam, I must tell you plainly that, had I no pre-^ 
ference for any one else, the choice you have made would be my 
aversion. 

Mrs. Malaprop. What business have you, miss, with j)reference 
and aversion ? They don't become a young woman ; and you ought 
to know that, as both always wear off, 'tis safest in matrimony to 
begin with a little aversion. I am sure I hated your poor, dear 
uncle before marriage as if he'd been a blackamoor ; and yet, miss, 
you are sensible of what a wife I made ; and when it pleased Heaven 
to release me from him 'tis unknown what tears I shed. But sup- 
pose we were going to give you another choice, will you promise us 
to give up this Beverley ? 

Lydia. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that promise, 
my actions would certainly as far belie my words. 

Mrs. Malaprop. Take yourself to your room. You are fit com- 
j)any for nothing but your ill-humors. 

Lydia. Willingly, ma'am. I cannot change for the worse. 

[Exit Lydia.'\ 

Mrs. Malaprop. There's a little intricate hussy for you I 

Sir Axthoxy. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am ; all this is 
the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. Had I a thou- 
sand daughters, confound it ! I'd as soon have them taught the 
black art as their alphabet. 



Richard Br ins ley Sheridan, 323 

Mrs. Malaprop. Xay, nay. Sir Anthony ; yon are an absolute 
misantliropy. 

Sir Axthoxy. In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed 
your niece's maid coming from a circulating library. She had a 
book in each hand ; they were half -bound yolumes with marble 
covers. Prom that moment I guessed how full of duty I should see 
her mistress. 

Mrs. Malaprop. Those are vile places, indeed. 

Sir Axthoxt. Madam, a circulating library in a town is an 
evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge. It blossoms through the 
year. And depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are so fond 
of handling the leaves will long for the fruit at last. 

Mrs. Malaprop. Fie, fie. Sir Anthony I you surely speak 
laconically. 

Sir AxTHOiJy^Y. Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation now, what 
would you have a woman know ? 

Mrs. Malaprop. Observe me, Sir Anthony. I w^ould by no 
means wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of learning ; I don't 
think so much learning becomes a young woman. For instance, I 
would never let her meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or algebra, or 
simony, or fluxions, or paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches of 
learning ; neither would it be necessary for her to handle any of 
your mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instruments. But, Sir 
Anthony, I would send her, at nine years old, to a boarding-school, 
in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice. Then, sir, she 
should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts ; and as she grew 
up I would have her instructed in geometry, that she might know 
something of the contagious countries ; but above all. Sir Anthony, 
she should be mistress of orthodoxy, that she might not missj)ell and 
mispronounce words so shamefully as girls usually do, and likewise 
that she might reprehend the true meaning of what she is saying. 
This, Sir Anthony, is Avhat I would have a woman know, and I 
don't think there is a superstitious article in it. 

Sir Axthoxy. Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute the 
point no further with you ; though I must confess that you are a 
truly moderate and j)olite arguer, for almost every third word you 
say is on my side of the question. I have hopes, madam, that time 
will bring the young lady — 

Mrs. Malaprop. Oh ! there's nothing to be hoped for from her 
She's as headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the ^ile ! 



324 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

EXTRACT FROM A SPEECH ON THE IRISH REBELLION. 
{Delivered in Jtme, 1798.) 

What ! when conciliation was held out to the people of Ireland^ 
was there any discontent ? When the government of Ireland was 
agreeable to the people, was there any discontent ? After the pros- 
pect of that conciliation was taken away — after Lord Pitzwilliam 
was recalled — after the hojDes which had been raised were blasted — 
when the spirit of the people was beaten down, insulted, despised, 
I will ask any gentleman to point out a single act of conciliation 
which has emanated from the government of Ireland ! On the 
contrary, has not that country exhibited one continual scene of the 
most grievous oppression, of the most vexatious proceedings ; arbi- 
trary punishments inflicted ; torture declared necessary by the 
highest authority in the sister kingdom next to that of the Legis- 
lature ? 

And do gentlemen say that the indignant spirit which is aroused 
by such exercise of government is unprovoked? Is this concilia- 
tion ? Is this lenity ? Has everything been done to avert the evils 
of rebellion ? It is the fashion to say, ,and the Address holds the 
same language, that the rebellion which now rages in the sister 
kingdom has been owing to the machinations of ^^ wicked men." 
Agreeing to the amendment proposed, it was my first intention to 
move that these words should be omitted. But, sir, the fact they 
assert is true. It is, indeed, to the measures of wicked men that the 
deplorable state of Ireland is to be imputed. It is to those vjiclced 
ministers ^N\\o have broken the promises they held out; who be- 
trayed the party they seduced to their views, to the instruments of 
the foulest treachery that ever was practised against any people. It 
is to those wiched ministers who have given up that devoted country 
to plunder, resigned it a prey to this faction, by which it has been 
so long trampled upon, and abandoned to every species of insult and 
oppression by which a country was ever overwhelmed or the sjDirit 
of a people insulted, that we owe the miseries into which Ireland is 
plunged and the dangers by which England is threatened. These 
evils are thcdoings of luicTced ministers, and applied to them, the 
language of the Address records a fatal and melancholy* truth ! 



Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 325 

SPEECH LN' CiPPOSITIOX TO PITT'S FIRST TXCOAIE-TAX 

{Delivered in tlie House of Commons.) 

A WISE man, sir, it is said, should doubt of everything. It was 
this maxim, probably, that dictated the amiable diffidence of the 
learned gentleman who addressed himself to the chair in these re- 
markable words : " I rise, Mr. Speaker, if I have risen." Xow, to 
remove all doubts, I can assure the learned gentleman " that he 
actually did rise, and not only rose, but pronounced an able, long, 
and elaborate discourse, a considerable portion of which was em- 
ployed in an erudite dissertation on the histories of Eome and 
Carthage. He further informed the House, ujDon the authority of 
Scipio, that we coudd never conquer the enemy until we were first 
conquered ourselves. It was when Hannibal was at the gates of 
Eome that Scipio had thought the pro23er moment for the invasion 
of Carthage — what a pity it is that the learned gentleman does not 
go with this consolation and the authority of Scipio to the Lord 
Mayor and aldermen of the city of London I Le; him sav : '' Ee- 
joice, my friends ! Bonaparte is encamped at Blackheath ! TVliat 
happy tidings ! ' ' Lor here Scipio tells us you may eveiy moment 
expect to hear of Lord Hawkesbury making his triumphal entry 
into Paris. It would be whimsical to obseiwe how they would 
receive such joyful news. I should like to see such faces as they 
would make on that occasion. Though I doubt not of the erudition 
of the learned gentleman, he seems to me to have somehow con- 
foimded the stories of Hanno and Hannibal, of Sci2:)io and the 
Eomans. He told us that Carthage was lost by the pai'simony or 
envy of Hanno in preventing the necessary supplies for the war 
being sent to Hannibal; but he neglected to go a little further, 
and to relate that Hanno accused the latter of having been am- 
bitious — 

** Juvenem furentein cupidiae regni" — 

and assured the Senate that Hannilial. though at the gates of 
Eome, was no less dangerous to Hanno. Be this, however, as it 
may, is there any Hanno in the British Senate ? If there is, nothing 
can be more certain than that all the efforts and remonstrances of 
the British Hanno could not prevent a single man or a single guinea 
heing sent for the supj^ly of any Hannibal our ministers might 

'=■ itr. Perceval, afterwards Ciiaiicellor of th.e Excliequei: 



326 TJie Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

choose. The learned gentleman added, after the defeat of Hanni- 
bal, Hanno laughed at the Senate ; but he did not tell ns what he 
laughed at. The advice of Hannibal has all the appearance of 
being a good one : 

" Carthaginis mcEnia RomsB mimerata." 

If they did not follow his advice, they had themselves to blame 
for it. 

The circumstance of a great, extensive, and victorious republic, 
breathing nothing but war in the long exercise of its most success- 
ful operations, surrounded with triumphs^ and j)antiug for fresh 
laurels, to be compared, much less represented as inferior, to the 
military power of England, is childish and ridiculous. What 
similitude is there between us and the great Eoman Eepublic in the 
height of its fame and glory ? Did you, sir, ever hear it stated 
that the Eoman bulwark was a naval force ? And, if not, what 
comparison can there be drawn between their efforts and power ? 
This kind of rhodomontade declamation is finely described in the 

language of one of the Eoman 23oets : 

« 

"I, demens, curre per Alpes, 
TJt pueris placeas, et declamatio fias. " -" 

— Jwoenal, Sat, x., 166. 

The proper ground, sir, upon which this bill should be oj^posed 
I conceive to be neither the uncertainty of the criterion nor the 
injustice of the retrospect, though they would be sufficient. The 
tax itself will be found to defeat its own purjDoses. The amount 
which an individual paid to the assessed taxes last year can be no 
rule for what he shall pay in future. All the articles by which the 
gradations rose must be laid aside and never resumed again. Cir- 
cumstanced as the country is, there can be no hope, no chance 
whatever, that, if the tax succeeds, it ever will be repealed. Each 
individual, therefore, instead of putting down this article or that, 
will make a final and general retrenchment, so that the minister 
cannot 2:et at him in the same wav ag'ain by anv outward sim 
which might be used as a criterion of his wealth. These retrench- 
ments cannot fail of depriving thousands of their bread, and it is 
vain to hold out the delusion of modification or indemnity to the 

20 Go, fight, to please schoolboy statesmen, and furnish a declamation for a doctor 
learned in the law. 



Richard Brinsley Sheridan, 



0^1 



lower orders. Every burtlien imposed upon the rich in the aiidcles 
which give the poor employment affects them not the less for 
affecting them circuitouslj. A coachmaker, for instance, would 
willingly compromise with the minister, to give him a hundred 
guineas not to lav the tax uj^on coaches ; for though the hundred 
guineas would he much more than his proportion of the new tax, 
yet it wotild be much better for him to ^^ay the larger contribution, 
than, by the laying down of coaches, be deprived of those orders 
bv which he sfot his bread. The same is the case with watch- 
makers, which I had lately an oj^portunity of witnessing, who, by 
the tax imposed last year, are reduced to a state of ruin, starvation, 
and misery ; yet, in j^roposing that tax, the minister alleged that 
the poor journeymen could not be affected, as the tax would only 
operate on the gentlemen by whom the watches were worn. It is 
as much cant, therefore, to say that, by bearing heavily on the rich, 
we are saving the lower orders, as it is folly to suppose we can come 
at real income by arbitrary assessment or by symptoms of opulence. 
There are three ways of raising large stims of money in a state : 
rirst, by vohmtary contributions ; secondly, by a gi*eat addition of 
new taxes ; and, thirdly, by forced contribtitions, wliich is the worst 
of all, and which I aver the present j)lan to be. I am at present 
so partial to the first mode that I recommend the further considera- 
tion of this measure to be postponed for a month, in order to make 
an experiment of what might be effected by it. For this j)ur2:)0se 
let a bill be brought in authorizing the proj^er persons to receive 
voluntary contributions : and I should not care if it were read a 
third time to-night. I confess, however, that there are many 
powerful reasons which forbid tis to be too sanguine in the success 
CA^en of this measnre. To awaken a spirit in the nation, the ex- 
ample should come from the first authority and the higher depart- 
ments of the state. It is, indeed, seriously to be lamented that, 
whatever may be the burdens or distresses of the people, the gov- 
ernment has hitherto never shown a disposition to contribute any- 
thing, and this conduct must hold out a poor encouragement to 
others. Heretofore all the public contribtitions were made for the 
benefit and profit of the contributors, in a manner inconceivable to 
more simple nations. If a native inhabitant of Bengal or China 
were to be informed that in the west of Euroj^e there was a small 
island which in the course of one hundred years contributed four 
hundred and fiftv millions to the exio-encies of the state, and tliat 



328 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

every individual, on the making of a demand, vied with his neigh- 
bor in alacrity to subscribe, he would immediately exclaim: ^^Mag- 
nanimous nation ! you must surely be invincible." But far diffe- 
rent would be his sentiments if informed of the tricks and jobs 
attending these transactions, where even loyalty was seen cringing 
f for its bonus ! If the first example were given from the highest 
authority, there would at least be some hopes of its being followed 
by other great men who received large revenues from the govern- 
ment. I would instance particularly the Teller of the Exchequer, 
and another person of higli rank, who receive from their offices 
£13,000 a year more in war than they do in peace. The last noble 
lord (Lord Grenville) had openly declared for perpetual war, and 
could not bring his mind to think of anything like a peace with 
the French. Without meaning any personal disrespect, it was the 
nature of the human mind to receive a bias from such circum- 
stances. So much was this acknowledged in the rules of this 
House that any person receiving a pension or high, employment 
from his Majesty thereby vacated his seat. It was not, therefore, 
unreasonable to expect that the noble lord would contribute his 
proportion, and that a considerable one, to carry on the war, in 
order to show the world his freedom from such a bias. In respect 
to a near relative of that noble lord, I mean the noble marquis 
(Marquis of Buckingham), there could be no doubt of his coming 
forward liberally. 

I remember when I was Secretary to the Treasury the noble mar- 
quis sent a letter there requesting that his office might, in point of 
fees and emoluments, be |)ut under the same economical regula- 
tions as the others. The reason he assigned for it was, ^^the emolu- 
ments were so much greater in time of war than peace that his 
conscience would be hurt by feeling that he received them from the 
distresses of his country. ISTo retrenchment, however, took place 
in that office. If, therefore, the marquis thought proper to bring 
the arrears since that time also from his conscience, the public would 
be at least £40,000 the better for it. By a calculation I have made, 
which, I believe, cannot be controverted, it appears, from the vast 
increase of our burdens during the war, that if peace were to be 
concluded to-morrow we should have to provide taxes annually to 
the amount of £28,000,000. To this is further to be added the ex- 
pense of that system by which Ireland is not governed, but ground, 
insulted, and oppressed. To fiud a remedy for all these incum- 



Richard Briiisley Sheridan. 329 

brances, the first tning to be done is to restore the credit of the 
bank, which has failed, as well in credit as in honor. Let it no 
longer, in the ministers hands, remain the slave of political circum- 
stances. It must continue insolvent till the connection is broken 
off. I remember, in consequence of ex[:»ressions made use of in this 
House upon former discussions, when it was thought the minister 
would relinquish that unnatural and ruinous alliance, the newspapers 
sjiorted a good deal with the idea that the House of Commons had 
forbid the bans between him and the old lady." Her friends had 
interfered, it was said, to prevent the union, as it was well known 
that it was her dower he sought, and not her person nor the charms 
of her societv. 

It is, sir, highly offensive to the decency and sense of a commer- 
cial people to observe the juggle between the minister and the bank. 
The latter vauntingly boasted itself ready and able to pay, but that 
the minister kindly prevented, and put a lock and key upon it. 
There is a liberality in the British nation which always makes 
allowance for inability of payment. Commerce requires entei*prise, 
and enterprise is subject to losses. But I believe no indulgence was 
ever shown to a creditor saying, •• I can, but will not jDay you.*' 
Such was the real condition of the bank, together with its accounts, 
when they were laid before the House of Commons, and the chair- 
man " reported from the committee, stating its prosperity and 
the srreat increase of its cash and bullion. The minister, however, 
took care to vary the old saying, ''Brag is a good dog, but Holdfast 
is better.*' "Ahl'''' said he, *'*'mvworthv chairman, this is excel- 
lent news, but I will take care to secure it." He kept his word, 
took the money, gave the Exchequer bills for it, which were no 
security, and there was then an end to all our public credit. It is 
singular enough, sir, that the rej^ort upon this bill stated that it 
was meant to secure our public credit fi'om the avowed intentions 
of the French to make war upon it. This was done most effectu- 
ally. Let the French come when they please ; they cannot touch 
our public credit at least. The minister has wisely provided against 
it ; for he has previously destroyed it. The only consolation besides 
that remains to us is his assurance that all wiU return again to its 
former state at the conclusion of the war. Thus we are to hope 

"^ "Old Ijwiy of Threadneedle Street '" is in England a common expression for the Bank 
of EncJand. 

-- Mr- Bragge -eras chairman of the committee, and this gave Sheridan the hint for his 
penning all^ision. 



330 The Prose aiiel Poetry of Ireland, 

that, though the bank now presents a meagre spectre, as soon as 
peace is restored the golden bust will make its reapjiearance. This, 
however, is far from being the way to inspirit the nation or in- 
timidate the enemy. Ministers have long taught the ^Deople of the 
inferior order that they can expect nothing from them but by coer- 
cion, and nothing from the great but by corruption. The highest 
encouragement to the French will be to observe the public suj)ine- 
ness. Can they have any apprehension of national energy or spirit 
in a people whose minister is eternally oj)pressing them ? 

Though, sir, I have opj^osed the present tax, I am still conscious 
that our existing situation requires great sacrifices to be made, and 
that a foreign enemy must at all events be resisted. I behold in the 
measures of the minister nothing except the most glaring incapacity 
and the most determined hostility to our liberties ; but we must be 
content, if necessary for preserving our independence from foreign 
attack, to strij) to the skin. "It is an established maxim," we are 
told, that men must give up a part for the preservation of the re- 
mainder. I do not dispute the justice of the maxim. But this is 
the constant language of the gentleman opposite to me. We have 
alread}^ given up part after j)art, nearly till the whole is swallowed up. 
If I had a j)ound, and a person asked me for a shilling to j)reserve 
the rest, I should willingly comply, and think myself obliged to 
him. But if he rejDeated that demand till he came to my twentieth 
shilling, I should ask him, '^ Where is the remainder ? Where is 
my pound now ? Why, my friend, that is no joke at all." Upon 
the whole, sir, I see no salvation for the country but in the conclu- 
sion of a peace and the removal of the present ministers. 



HENRY GRATTAN, 

"By reading the admirable speeches of Grattan, I have discovered, as it were, 
a new world — the world of Ireland, of her long sufferings, her times of freedom 
and gloiy, her sublime geniuses, and her indefatigable struggles."^ — Count de 

MONTALEMBEBT. 

" Who that ever hath heard him — that drank at the source 
Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own, 
In whose high-thoughted daring the fire and the force 
And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown." — Moore. 

"The speeches of Grattan are the finest specimens of imaginative eloquence 
in the English or in any language." — Davis. 

HEXRY GrRATTAN, one of the greatest of Irish orators, states- 
men, and patriots, was born in Dublin on the 3d of July, 1746. 
His father was for many years Recorder of the Capital of Ireland. 
Mary Marlay,^ his mother, was a lady of refined taste, cultivated 
mind, and great personal attractions — in short, a rare woman. 
Henry, like most other great men of history, inherited his natural 
genius from his gifted mother. In nothing did he resemble his 
father, whose views were narrow and bigoted in the extreme. 

Young Grattan was first sent to a school kej)t by a Mr. Ball in 
Great Ship Street, Dublin. Though of delicate constitution, he 
exhibited from his earliest years great energy of character. ^^His 
body," says one of his biographers, "was rather a frail tenement 
for a spirit so enterj)rising." ^ 

In his seventeenth year Henry entered Trinity College, studied 
hard and successfully, and graduated with distinction in 1767. 
He then proceeded to London to qualify for the bar. Here he 
made the acquaintance of Burke, Fox, Chatham, and other famous 
men whose names have since passed into history. 

Grattan's was a poetic and emotional nature. He loved others 
intensely, and the warmth of his friendship was universally re- 
ciprocated. He delighted in wandering in the open country, and 
his love of rural scenery had the nature of a passion.* 

* This is the enthusiastic language of a gifted boy of eighteen. 

2 She was the daughter of Chief-Justice Marlay, who belonged to a distinguished Irish 
family of N^orman origin, 

3 Madden, " Memoir of Grattan." * Madden. 

331 



332 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland. 

Many anecdotes are told of this period of Grattan's life. He 
was in the habit of declaiming to himself. His London landlady- 
was alarmed. She wrote to his friends, requesting that he should 
be removed, as he was always pacing her garden addressing some 
person whom he called ^'Mr. Speaker : *' and, in truth, she was in 
doubt of the sanity of her lodger I Judge Day relates that Grattan, 
in one of his moonlight rambles through Windsor Forest, stopped 
at a gibbet, whose chains he apostrophized in his usual animated 
strain. He was suddenly tapped upon the shoulder by a veiy 
prosaic personage, who enquired : '' How the devil did you get 
down ? '" 

In his twenty-sixth year, Grattan was called to the Irish bar. 
He soon discovered that law was not his vocation. Abandoning it, 
he was induced by several of his friends to enter the Irish Parlia- 
ment. In the fall of ] TT5 ° he was elected member for Charlemont. 
!N^ow began that gi-and public career extending over half a century 
— a career that ended only with the hfe of the illustrious man. 

Let us glance back a hundred years. "What do we see in un- 
happy Ireland? ^^A hundred years ago," says a recent writer, 
'^ one island insisted on ruling the other with iron despotism. Ire- 
land, indeed, ^^ossessed a Parliament of its own; but not all the 
Lords and Commons of Ireland could pass a law, even about an 
Irish turnpike gate, without leave expressly asked and expressly 
given from London. Ireland had not a single representative in 
the En2:lish Parliament, and vet the Eno:lish Parliament bound 
Ireland by any laws it hked. This legislative power was, as might 
be suj^posed, used ignorantly. It could scarcely be otherwise in 
those days, when a Yorkshire squire knew far less about Ireland 
than such a squire now knows about Timbuctoo. Whenever Irish 
interests clashed, or seemed to clash, with English interests, Eng- 
land remorselessly sacrificed the former to the latter, and laws were 
jjassed with the avowed object of prejudicing the entire population 
of Ireland." 

A man now stepped upon the scene of Irish public afiairs — a 
bright, brave man, whose soul scorned injustice, whose noble nature 
hated iniquity and tyranny, and who could not be bribed to stand 
unmoved at the awful oppression of his loved and unfortunate 
country. It was Henry Grattan. He was ^* twenty-nine years of 
age when he entered politics, and in seven years he was the trium- 

=• The same vear. be it remarked, in which Daniel O'Connell was bom. 



Henry Grattan. 333 

pliant leader of a people free and victorious, after hereditary 
bondage.'"'' In 1TT9 lie addressed the House on the subject of 
free trade for Ireland, and on the 19th of April, IT SO, he made 
his famous demand for the constitutional independence of the 
Irish Parliament and the Irish nation. **His memorable speech' 
upon that occasion," writes Madden, *^was the most sj)lendid j^iece 
of eloquence that had ever been heard in Ireland, and it vies with 
the greatest efforts ever made in the English House of Com- 
mons."** 

"I wish for nothing,'' exclaimed the noble Grattan in that im- 
mortal speech, 'M^ut to breathe in this our island, in common with 
my fellow-subjects, the air of liberty. I have no ambition unless it be 
the ambition to break your chain and to contemplate your glorv. 
I never will be satisfied so long as the meanest cottager in Ireland 
has a link of the British chain clanking to his rags. He may be 
naked, but he shall not be in irons ! " 

The giant efforts of Grattan at length brought a day abotit on 
which the legislative indei^endence of Ireland was proclaimed. She 
was permitted to make her own laws. It was April 16, 1T82, one 
of the most memorable days in Irish history. The spectacle pre- 
sented by the Irish metropolis was something never witnessed be- 
fore, nor since. Thousands crowded round the Parliament House 
on Colleofe Green. The Irish Volunteers, soldiers racv of the soil, 
kept the multitude in order. Carnage after carriage passes. 
Finally one moves slowly and solemnly between the lines of the 
Volunteers. It contains the hero of the day. The name of Grattan 
is murmured. Cheers burst forth. The nation in one voice 
thunders its words of joyous welcome. Grattan bows to the peo- 
ple. He hurries up the gi'anite steps, and as he does so a keen 
observer could see that those eyes which never feared the face of 
man are now streamins: with overflowino; tears. '"Ah I dear, dear 
Grattan,'' exclaims one of his eloquent countrymen, ••kindly Irish 
of the Irish — all our own I " ^ 

Let us enter the Parhament-House. The Duke of Portland '° rises. 
His message is brief. In the very first sentence he announces that 
the Irish have won the game, and that the King, Lords, and Com- 

« Daris, "Literary and Historical Essays." 

■^ See p. ass for this speech oa •• The Declaration of Irish Eight." 

8 "Memoir of Srattan." 

s The late lameated EeT. James J. :yurphy, editor of the Montreal True Witness. 

*° ^t that time Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. 



334 ^-^^^ Prose and Poetiy of h^cland, 

mons of Great Britain have acceded without reseiTe to tlie de- 
claration of the Irish ParUament, and have acknowledged officially 
the constitutional independence of Ireland. And now it is Grattan's 
turn. He is iust thirty-six years of ase : but he looks older by at 
least a dozen years. His face is not by any means a handsome face, 
not made according to any model that pairters or young ladies haye 
ever loved. But it is essentially a face of power, and of power that 
looks as if it had declared everlasting war against knavery and in- 
justice. There is terrible strength in the intense mouth, terrible 
fire in the intense eyes, terrible daring in the knotted and grappling 
brows, and over the whole visage there is that awful self-forgetfulness 
which only comes from long pondering in the dark, or long watching 
with the stars. As the man rises — and he rises wnth a painful effort 
which seems spasmodic — his body looks to be small and shrunken, 
below the middle height, spare and bony, and as, lifting himself 
erect, he stretches otit his uplifted hand the fingers seem sj^are and 
knotted as an eagle's claw. For the fii'st two or three minutes, says 
a looker on, you can hardly keep from latighing, so awkward is the 
figure, so uncouth is the gesture ; but gradually the man's voice as- 
serts itself, soul is left alone with sotil, and you are smitten through 
heart and brain with stich a strength of speech as was never heard 
before except from the great Demosthenes. The stillness is terrible 
as death and the judgment day. At last the speaker sits down, 
every fibre of his body trembling with emotion, and at once there 
arises from all that vast assemblage such a rapture of apj^lause as 
tells the 23eople in the remotest part of historic Dublin that Grattan 
has triumphed and that Ireland is free. ^^ Men shake hands with 
one another and toss their caps high in the air, and renewed and 
thunderous cheers proclaim the praises of Henry Grattan. ^^ 

' ' When Grattan rose, none dared oppose 
The claim he made for freedom ; 
They knew our swords to back his words 
Were ready, did he need them." ^^ 

**Thu3 was carried the revolution of 1782," wi'ites Madden, "in 
the achievement of which Henry Grattan played a part that would 

^1 On that day England for the first time recognized Ireland as a distinct kingdom, with 
a Parliament of her o\m, the sole legislature thereof. 
-- Rev. James J. Murphy. 
13 Davis's " Song of the Volunteers of 1782." 



Henry Grattafi. 335 

preserve his memory in history^, even if his eloquence had not im- 
mortalized his name."' '" 

The gratitude of the Irish nation was boundless. Ifc was pur- 
posed in Parliament to reward Grrattan's great services by voting 
him 1500,000, ^'as a testimony of the national gratitude for great 
national ser\dces." To decline the grant was his first imj^ulse. But 
his patrimony was small, and by the advice of his friends he con- 
sented to accept half of the sum voted him, at the same time form- 
ing the inflexible resolution never to take office, a resolution to 
which he adhered to the day of his death. 

In 1782, during the very crisis of the age, Grattan married Miss 
Henrietta Fitzgerald, ^^ a lady of beauty and virtue,*' writes Madden, 
^* to whose character her son has paid a most touching tribute while 
recording his father's career.'' ^^ 

AYe have not space to follow minutely G-rattan's grand Parlia- 
mentary career. We come down at once to the dark days of the 
Union. Unsuccessful revolution, disunion, the corruption begot of 
English gold, had at length done their sad work. Ireland was 
about to lose her Parliament, to give up her existence as a distinct 
kingdom. Where was Grattan ? Though at this time sick at his 
home and almost dead, he had himself elected for AVicklow. It was 
the loth of January, 1800. The last session of the last Irish Parlia- 
ment opened its sittings. The crisis was at hand. The bill for the 
union of Ireland and England was the subject up for discussion. 
Each speaker for and against excelled himself. The night wore 
on. Suddenly, cheering was heard at the door of the House. Two 
of the members rushed out. Eeturning, they led between them a 
wasted and feeble man. It was Grattan ! At his appearance, we 
are told, the vdiole House stood up and uncovered. As he took the 
oaths Lord Castlereagh and the ministers bowed and remained 
standing. Sobs of emotion burst from the galleries. All acknow- 
ledged the presence of genius and virtue in the person of the very 
father of the Irish Parliament, the great patriot whose frail body 
could scarcely contain his dauntless spirit. He was unable to stand ; 
but, sitting down, he addressed the House for two hours, his eyes 
sparkling, and burning Avords flowing from his pale lips. The 
closing sentence of that great and solemn speech in opposition to 
the Union was: ^^ Against such a proposition, were I expiring on 

" " Memoir of Grattan." 

'* See Grattan's " Life," by his son, vol. iii. chap. L 



2,2,^ The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

the floor, I should beg to utter my last breath and record my dying- 
testimony ! " ^^If the Irish Parliament,'' said a writer, ^^ could have 
been saved by eloquence, Grattan would have saved it." But cor- 
ruption was victorious, iniquity won the day, and Ireland dis- 
appeared from the list of independent nations I 

Grattan, sad at heart, retired from j)ublic life, and until 1805 
lived in the bosom of his family. In that year the friends of Cath®- 
lic emancipation induced him to offer himself as a candidate for tke 
British Parliament. He was elected for Dublin, which city he 
represented till his death. Let it be remembered to the everlasting 
honor of Grattan, that, though a Protestant himself, he was the un- 
ceasing advocate of the jooor, oppressed, and down-trodden Catholics 
of his native isle, "^^hen other statesmen were ashamed to speak of 
Catholics as men having any rights, the noble Grattan, transcending 
the meanness and narrow bigotry of his age, raised his manly voice 
in their favor. At all times he claimed their entire emancipation. 
He wrought for them in the Irish Parliament. He wrought for 
them in the English Parliament. In season and out of season, till 
his dying day he was their tried and trusted friend. To their sacred 
cause, to use his own words, he ^^ clung with desperate fidelity." 
It may be said with truth that he died in the cause of Catholic 
emancipation.^® Though warned by his medical attendants of the 
consequences, he insisted, in 1820, upon going to London, that he 
might once more present the petition of the Catholics. ^^ I shall be 
happy," said the venerable patriot, ^* to die in the performance of 
my duty." With these words on his lips he left Ireland never ta 
see it again. He took sick soon after his arrival in England. 

To the end he thought of nothing:, dreamt of nothins:, but his 
dear and unhappy country. ^^Keep knocking at the Union," he 
whispered on his death-bed to Lord Cloncurry. These were almost 
his last words. He died in London on June 6, 1820, and was buried 
in Westminster Abbey. 

*^The purity of his life," says Sir James Mackintosh, "was the 
brightness of his glory. Among all the men of genius I have known, 
I have never found so much native grandeur of soul accompanying 
all the wisdom of age and all the simplicity of genius." " 

"The history of his life," writes Mr. Chambers, "is, in a great 



16 "The Penny Cyclopsedia," vol. xi. 

17 "Eulogy of Grattan."' 



Hen ry ' Grattan. -^Zl 

measure, the liistory of the Irish Constitution, and entirely the 
history of the Irish Parliament.'" '' 

Grattan was the^rs^ modern Irishman who really ministered in- 
tellectually to the national character of his country. He ^^in- 
yented an eloquence/'' writes Madden, ^' to which the moral tem- 
perament of his country responded. His sj^eeches are so much in 
conformity with its genius and its mental characteristics, as the 
pensive and wildly beautiful, yet alternately gay and exciting, 
music of the island. You may trace in his eloquence the yiyid na- 
ture, the eager mind, the cordial sympathy, and aspiring soul of 
the Irishman. In short, Grattan was the first powerful assertor, as 
he is certainly the most splendid illustrator, of Irish genius." ^^ 

'^ISo other orator,*' observes Thomas Davis, ^''is so uniformly 
animated. Xo other orator has brightened the depths of political 
philosophy with such vivid and lasting light. No writer in the 
language, except Shakspere, has so sublime and suggestive a dic- 
tion. His force and vehemence are a,mazing — far beyond Chatham, 
far beyond Fox, far beyond any orator we can recall."*" 

^' Grattan may be ranked," wrote a famous critic, ^'^ among the 
greatest masters of the sarcastic style. He had a lively and play- 
ful fancy, which he seldom permitted to break loose, and his habits 
of labor were such that he abounded in all information, ancient 
and modern, which his subject required, and could finish his com- 
position with a degree of care seldom bestowed upon speeches in 
modern times. Finally, he was a man of undaunted courage, and al- 
ways rose with the difficulties of his situation. Xo one ever threw him 
ofi his guard. TThoever dreamed that he had caught him unawares 
was speedily aroused to a bitter sense of his mistake ; and it is a 
remarkable circumstance that, of all his speeches now preserved, 
the two most striking in point of execution are those personal at- 
tacks upon Mr. Flood and Mr. Corry, which, from the nature of the 
occasions that called them forth, must of necessity have been the 
production of the moment." '^^ 

Lord Bvron said that Grattan was — 

• ' With all that Demosthenes wanted endowed. 
And his rival or master in all he possessed." 

Of Grattan the famous Sydney Smith wrote : ^'I^o government 

1^ " Chambers's Encyclopaedia,"* vol. v. ^^ " Memoir of Grattan." 

2" " Literary and Historical Essays." ^i Edinburgh Eexieic^ vol. xxxviii. 



^2,^ The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

the floor, I should beg to utter my last breath and record my dying' 
testimony ! " ^' If the Irish Parliament," said a writer, ^^ could have 
been saved by eloquence, Grattan would have saved it." But cor- 
ruption was victorious, iniquity won the day, and Ireland dis- 
appeared from the list of independent nations ! 

Grattan, sad at heart, retired from public life, and until 1805 
lived in the bosom of his family. In that year the friends of Catk®- 
lic emancipation induced him to offer himself as a candidate for tke 
British Parliament. He was elected for Dublin, which city he 
represented till his death. Let it be remembered to the everlasting 
honor of Grattan, that, though a Protestant himself, he was the un- 
ceasing advocate of the poor, oj)pressed, and down-trodden Catholics 
of his native isle. When other statesmen were ashamed to speak of 
Caiholics as men having an}' rights, the noble Grattan, transcending 
the meanness and narrow bigotry of his age, raised his manly voice 
in their favor. At all times he claimed their entire emancipation. 
He wrought for them in the Irish Parliament. He wrought for 
them in the English Parliament. In season and out of season, till 
his dying day he was their tried and trusted friend. To their sacred 
cause, to iise his own words, he ^^ clung with desperate fidelity." 
It may be said with truth that he died in the cause of Catholic 
emancipation.^^ Though warned by his medical attendants of the 
consequences, he insisted, in 1820, upon going to London, that he 
might once more present the petition of the Catholics. ^* I shall be 
happy," said the venerable patriot, ^^to die in the performance of 
my duty." With these words on his lips he left Ireland never ta 
see it again. He took sick soon after his arrival in England. 

To the end he thought of nothing, dreamt of nothing, but his 
dear and unhappy country. '^Keep knocking at the Union," he 
whisj^ered on his death-bed to Lord Cloncurry. These were almost 
his last words. He died in London on June 6, 1820, and was buried 
in Westminster Abbey. 

^'The purity of his life," says Sir James Mackintosh, "was the 
brightness of his glory. Among all the men of genius I have known, 
I have never found so much native grandeur of soul accompanying 
all the wisdom of age and all the simplicity of genius." " 

'^The history of his life," writes Mr. Chambers, "is, in a great 



16 "The Penny CyclopsBdia," vol. xi. 
" " Eulogy of Grattan."' 



Hen T) ' Gi^attan, 2>Z7 

measure, the history of the Irish Constitution, and entirely the 
history of the Irish Parliament.'' '^ 

Grattan was t\\Q first modern Irishman who really ministered in- 
tellectually to the national character of his country. He ^^ in- 
vented an eloquence/' writes Madden, '^^ to which the moral tem- 
j^erament of his countr}' responded. His sj^eeches are so much in 
conformity with its genius and its mental characteristics, as the 
pensive and wildly beautiful, yet alternately gay and exciting, 
music of the island. You may trace in his eloquence the yivid na- 
ture, the eager mind, the cordial sympathy, and as^^iring soul of 
the Irishman. In short, Grattan was the first powerful assertor, as 
he is certainly the most sjolendid illustrator, of Irish genius." ^^ 

^*Xo other orator," observes Thomas Davis, *^^is so uniformly 
animated. Xo other orator has brightened the depths of political 
philosophy with such vivid and lasting light. No writer in the 
language, except Shakspere, has so sublime and suggestive a dic- 
tion. His force and vehemence are ajmazing — far beyond Chatham, 
far beyond Fox, far beyond any orator we can recall. " ^° 

" Grattan may be ranked," wrote a famous critic, '' among the 
greatest masters of the sarcastic style. He had a lively and play- 
ful fancy, which he seldom permitted to break loose, and his habits 
of labor were such that he abounded in all information, ancient 
and modern, which his subject required, and could finish his com- 
position with a degree of care seldom bestowed upon speeches in 
modern times. Finally, he was a man of undaunted courage, and al- 
ways rose with the difficulties of his situation. I^o one ever threw him 
oS his guard. TThoever dreamed that he had caught him unawares 
was speedily aroused to a bitter sense of his mistake ; and it is a 
remarkable circumstance that, of all his speeches now preserved, 
the two most striking in point of execution are those personal at- 
tacks upon Mr. Flood and Mr. Corry, which, from the nature of the 
occasions that called them forth, must of necessity have been the 
production of the moment."" 

Lord Byron said that Grattan was — 

' ' With all that Demosthenes wanted endowed. 
And his rival or master in all he possessed." 

Of Grattan the famous Sydney Smith wrote : ^*Xo government 

^* " Chambers's Encyclopaedia," vol. v. ^^ •' Memoir of Grattan." 

'*"' " Literary and Historical Essays." ^^ Edinburgh Ee'view^ vol. xxxviii. 



340 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

See her military ardor, expressed not only in 40,000 men, con- 
ducted by instinct as they were raised by inspiration, but manifested 
in the zeal and promj^titude of every young member of the growing- 
community. Let corruption tremble ! Let the enemy, foreign or 
domestic, tremble; but let the friends of liberty rejoice at these 
means of safety and this hour of redemption ! Yes, there does 
exist an enlightened sense of rights, a young appetite for freedom, 
a solid strength, and a rapid fire, which not only put a declaration 
of right within your power, but put it out of your j)ower to decline 
one. Eighteen counties are at your bar. They stand there with 
the compact of Henry, with the charter of John, and with all the 
passions of the people. ^^Our liyes are at your seryice; but our 
liberties — we received them from God ; we will not resign them ta 
man." Speaking to you thus, if you repulse these petitioners, you 
abdicate the privileges of Parliament, forfeit the rights of the king- 
dom, repudiate the instruction of your constituents, belie the sense 
of your country, palsy the enthusiasm of the people, and reject that 
good which not a minister, not a Lord ISTorth, not a Lord Bucking- 
hamshire, not a Lord Hillsborough, but a certain ^providential con- 
juncture, or rather the hand of God, seems to extend to you. Xor 
are we only jorompted to this when we consider our strength ; we- 
are challenged to it when we look to Great Britain. The people of 
that country are now waiting to hear the Parliament of Ireland 
speak on the subject of their liberty ; it begins to be made a ques- 
tion in England Avhether the principal persons wish to be free. It 
was the delicacy of former Parliaments to be silent on the subject of 
commercial restrictions, lest they should show a knowledge of the 
fact and not a sense of the violation. You have spoken out ; you 
have shown a knowledge of the fact, and not a sense of the viola- 
tion. On the contrary, you have returned thanks for a partial 
repeal made on a i^rinciple of power ; you liaye returned thanks as 
for a favor, and your exultation has brought your character as well 
as your spirit into question, and tends to shake to her foundation 
your title to liberty. Thus you do not leave your rights where you 
.found them. You have done too much not to do more ; you have 
gone too far not to go on; you have brought yourselves into that 
situation in which you must silently abdicate the rights of your 
country or publicly restore them. It is very true you may feed 
your manufacturers, and landed gentlemen may get their rents, and 
you may export woollens, and may load a vessel with baize, serges. 



Henry Grattan, 341 

and kerseys, and you may bring back again directly from tlie plan- 
tations sugar, indigo, speckle-wood, beetle-root, and panellas ; but 
liberty, the foundation of trade, the charters of the land, the inde- 
pendence of Parliament, the securing, crowning, and the consum- 
mation of everything, are yet to come. Without them the work is 
imperfect, the foundation is wanting, the capital is wanting, 
trade is not free, Ireland is a colony without the benefit of a char- 
ter, and you are a provincial synod without the privileges of a 
Parliament. 

I therefore say, with the voice of 3,000,000 of people, that, not- 
withstanding the impo-rt of sugar, beetle-wood, and panellas, and 
the export of woollens and kerseys, nothing is safe, satisfactory, or 
honorable, nothing except a declaration of right. What ! are you, 
with 3,000,000 of men at your back, with charters in one hand and 
arms in the other, afraid to say you are a free people ? Are you, 
the greatest House of Commons that ever sat in Ireland, that want 
but this one act to equal that English House of Commons that 
passed the Petition of Eight, or that other that passed the Declara- 
tion of Eight, are you afraid to tell that British Parliament you are 
a free people ? Are the cities and the instructing counties, who 
have breathed a spirit that would have done honor to old Eome 
when Eome did honor to mankind, are they to be free by con- 
nivance ? Are the military associations, those bodies whose origin, 
progress, and deportment have transcended — equalled, at least — 
anything in modern or ancient story — is the vast line of northern 
army — are they to be free by connivance ? What man will settle 
among you ? Where is the use of the Naturalization Bill ? What 
man will settle among you ? Who will leave a land of liberty and 
a settled government for a kingdom controlled by the Parliament of 
another country, whose liberty is a thing by stealth, whose trade a 
thing by permission, whose judges deny her charters, whose Parlia- 
ment leaves everything at random ; where the chance of freedom 
depends upon the hope that the jury shall despise the judge stating 
a British act, or a rabble stop the magistrate executing it, rescue 
your abdicated privileges, and save the Constitution by trampling 
on the Government, by anarchy, and confusion ? 

But I shall be told that these are groundless jealousies, and that 
the principal cities, and more than one-half of the counties of the 
kingdom, are misguided men raising those groundless jealousies, 
^ir, let me become, on this occasion, the people's advocate, and your 



342 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

historian. The people of this country were possessed of a code of 
liberty similar to that of Great Britain, bnt lost it through the 
"weakness of the kingdom and the pusillanimity of its leaders. 
Having lost our liberty by the usurpation of the British Parhament, 
no wonder we became a prey to her ministers ; and they did j^lunder 
us with all the hands of all tlie harpies, for a series of years, in every 
shape of power, terrifying our people with the thunder of Great 
Britain and bribing our leaders with the rapine of Ireland. The 
kingdom became a plantation ; her Parliament, deprived of its 
privileges, fell into contempt, and with the Legislature, the law, 
the spirit of liberty, with her forms, vanished. If a war broke out, 
as in 17T8, and an occasion occurred to restore liberty and restrain 
rapine. Parliament declined the oj)portunity ; but, with an active 
servility and trembling loyalty, gave and granted, without regard 
to the treasure we had left or the rights we had lost. If a partial 
reparation was made upon a principle of expediency. Parliament 
did not receive it with the tranquil dignity of an august assembly, 
but with the alacrity of slaves. 

The peoj)le of Ireland are not satisfied ; they ask for a Constitu- 
tion ; they have the authority of the wisest men in this House for 
what they now demand. What have these walls for this last cen- 
tury resounded ? The usurpation of the British Parliament and the 
interference of the Privy Council. Have we taught the people to 
complain, and do we now condemn their insatiability because they 
desire us to remove such giievances at a time in which nothing can 
oj)pose them, except the very men by whom these grievances were 
acknowledged ? 

Sir, we may hope to dazzle with illumination, and we may sicken 
with addresses, but the j)^^blic imagination will never rest, nor will 
her heart be well at ease — never ! so long as the Parliament of Eng- 
land exercises or claims a legislation over this country. So long as 
this shall be the case, that very free trade, otherwise a perj^etual 
attachment, will be the cause of new discontent ; it will create a 
pride to feel the indignity of bondage ; it will furnish a strength to 
bite your chain, and the liberty withheld will poison the good com- 
municated. 

The British minister mistakes the Irish character. Had he in- 
tended to make Ireland a slave, he should have kept her a beggar. 
There is no middle policy ; win her heart by the restoration of her 
right, or cut off the nation's right hand ; gi*eatly emancipate, or 



Henry Grattan. 343 

fnncIamentallT destroy. We may talk plausibly to England, but so 
long as she exercises a power to bind this country, so long are the 
nations in a state of war; the claims of the one go against the liberty 
of the other, and the sentiments of the latter go to oppose those 
claims to the last di'op of her blood. The English Opposition, there- 
fore, are right ; mere trade will not satisfy Ireland — they judge of 
us by other great nations, by the nation whose political life has been 
a struggle for liberty; they judge of us with a true knowledge of 
and just deference for our character — that a country enlightened as 
Ireland, chartered as Ireland, armed as Ireland, and injured as Ire- 
land, will be satisfied with nothing less than liberty. 

There is no objection to this resolution, except fears. I hare ex- 
amined your fears ; I jDronounce them to be fi-ivolous. If England 
is a tyrant, it is voti have made her so ; it is the slave that makes 
the tyrant, and then murmurs at the master whom he himself has 
constituted. There is nothing in the way of your liberty except 
your own corruption and pusillanimity, and nothing can ^oreyent 
your being free except yourselyes. It is not in the disposition of 
England ; it is not in the interest of England ; it is not in her 
arms. What! can 8,000,000 of Englishmen, opposed to 20,000,000 
of French, to 7,000,000 of Spanish, to 3,000,000 of Americans, 
reject the alliance of 3,000,000 in Ireland? Can 8,000,000 of 
British men, thus outnumbered by foes, take upon their shoulders 
the exj^ense of an expedition to enslave you ? TVill Great Britain, 
a wise and magnanimous countiy, thus tutored by experience and 
wasted by war, the French navy riding her Channel, send an army 
to Ireland, to levy no tax, to enforce no law, to answer no end 
whatsoever, except to spoliate the charters of Ireland and enforce 
a barren oppression ? What I has England lost thirteen provinces ? 
Has she reconciled herself to this loss, and will she not be re- 
conciled to the Hberty of Ireland ? Take notice that the very 
Constitution wliich I move you to declare. Great Britain herself 
offered to America ; it is a very instructive proceeding in the British 
history. In 1TT8 a commission went out, with powers to cede to 
the thirteen provinces of America, totally and radically, the legis- 
lative authority claimed over her by the British Parliament, and 
the commissioners, j)^^i'suant to their powers, did offer to all or 
any of the American States the total surrender of the legislative 
authority of the British Parliament. What I has England offered 
this to the resistance of America, and will she refuse it to the 



344 T^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

loyalty of Ireland ? Your fears are then nothing but an habitual 
subjugation of mind; that subjugation of mind which made you, 
at first, tremble at every great measure of safety ; which made the 
principal men amongst us conceiye the commercial association 
would be a war ; that fear, which made them imagine the military 
, association had a tendency to treason ; which made them think a 
short money-bill would be a j^ublic convulsion; and yet these mea- 
sures have not only proved to be useful, but are held to be mode- 
rate, and the Parliament that adopted them praised, not for its 
unanimity only, but also for its temper. You now wonder that you 
submitted for so many years to the loss of the woollen trade and 
the deprivation of the glass trade ; raised above your former abject 
state in commerce, you are ashamed at your past pusillanimity. So 
when you have summoned a boldness which shall assert the liberties 
of your country — raised by the act, and reinvested, as you will be, in 
the glory of your ancient rights and privileges — you will be sur- 
prised at yourselves, who have so long submitted to their violation. 
Moderation is but a relative term ; for nations, like men, are only 
safe in pro^Dortion to the spirit they jout forth, and the j^roud con- 
templation with which they survey themselves. Conceive your- 
selves a j^lantation, ridden by an oppressive government, and every- 
thing 3'ou haA'e done is but a fortunate frenzy ; conceive yourselves 
to be what you are, a great, a growing, and a proud nation, and a 
declaration of right is no more than the safe exercise of your in- 
^ dubitable authority. 

I shall hear of ingratitude ; I name the argument to despise it and 
the men who make use of it. I know the men who use it are not 
grateful, they are insatiate ; they are public extortioners, who would 
stop the tide of jiublic prosperity, and turn it to the channel of their 
own emolument. I know of no species of gratitude which should 
prevent my country from being free, no gratitude which should oblige 
Ireland to be the slave of England. In cases of robbery and usurpa- 
tion nothing is an object of gratitude except the thing stolen, the 
charter spoliated. A nation's liberty cannot, like her treasures, be 
meted and parcelled out in gratitude. ISTo man can be grateful or 
liberal of his conscience, nor woman of her honor, nor nation of her 
liberty. There are certain unimpartable, inherent, invaluable j)roper- 
ties not to be alienated from the person, whether body politic or body 
natural. AVith the same contempt do I treat that charge which says 
ihat Ireland is insatiable, saying .that Ireland asks nothing but that 



Henry Grattan. 345 

wliicli Great Britain has robbed lier of, her rights and priyileges. To 
say that Ireland will not be satisfied with liberty because she is not 
satisfied with slavery is folly. I laugh at that man who supposes 
that Ireland will not be content with a free trade and a free Consti- 
tution ; and would any man advise her to be content with less ? 

I shall be told that we hazard the modification of the law of 
Poyniugs' and the Judges' Bill, and the Habeas Corpus Bill, and the 
Xullum Tempus Bill ; but I ask, Have you been for years begging 
for these little things and have not you yet been able to obtain them ? 
and have you been contending against a little body of eighty men in 
Privy Council assembled, convocating themselves into the image of 
a Parliament, and ministering your high office ? And have you been 
contendiDg against one man, an humble individual, to you a levia- 
than, the English Attorney-General, who advises in the case of Irish 
bills, and exercises legislation in his own person, and makes your 
parliamentary deliberations a blank, by altering your bills or sup- 
pressing them ? And have you not yet been able to conquer this little 
monster ? Do you wish to know the reason ? I will tell you ; because 
you have not been a parliament nor 5'our country a people. Do you 
wish to know the remedy ? be a Parliament, become a nation, and 
these things will follow in the train of your consequence. I shall be 
told that titles are shaken, being vested by force of English acts; 
but, in answer to that, I observe time may be a title, acquiescence a 
title, forfeiture a title, but an English act of Parliament certainly 
cannot. It is an authority which, if a judge would charge, no jury 
would find, and which all the electors in Ireland have already dis- 
claimed unequivocally, cordially, and universally. Sir, this is a good 
argument for an act of title, but no argument against a declaration 
of riglit. My friend, who sits above me (Mr. Yelverton), has a Bill 
of Confirmation ; we do not come unprepared to Parliament. I am 
not come to shake property, but to confirm property and restore 
freedom. The nation begins to form ; we are moulding into a peo- 
ple ; freedom asserted, property secured, and the army (a mercenary 
band) likely to be restrained by law. Xever was such a revolution 
accomplished in so short a time, and with such public tranquillity. 

The same laws, the same charters, communicate to both kingdoms. 
Great Britain and Ireland, the same rights and privileges ; and one 
privilege above them all is that communicated by Magna Charta, by 
the 25tli of Edward the Third, and by a multitude of other statutes, 
'^not to be bound by any act except made with the archbishojos. 



346 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland, 

bishops, earls, barons, and freemen of the commonalty " — viz., of the 
Parliament of the realm. On this right of exclusiye legislation are 
founded the Petition of Eight, Bill of Eight, Eevolution, and Act of 
Settlement. The King has no other title to his crown than that 
which you have to your liberty: both are founded, the throne and 
your freedom, upon the right vested in the subject to resist by arms, 
notwithstanding their oaths of allegiance, any authority attempting 
to impose acts of j)0wer as laws, Avhether that authority be one man 
or a host, the second James, or the British Parliament. 

And as anything less than liberty is inadequate to Ireland, so is it 
dangerous to Great Britain. TVe are too near the British nation, we 
are too conversant with her history, we are too much fired by her 
example, to be anything less than her equal ; anythiDg less I we 
should be her bitterest enemies, an enemy to that power which 
smote us with her mace, and to that Constitution from whose bless- 
ings we were excluded. To be ground as we have been by the British 
nation, bound by her Parhament, plundered by her Crown, threat- 
ened by her enemies, insulted with her protection, while we returned 
thanks for her condescension, is a system of meanness and misery 
which has expired in our determination, as I hope it has in her 
magnanimity. 

That there are precedents against us I allow — acts of power I would 
call them, not precedents — and I answer the English pleading such 
j)recedents as they answered their kings when they urged precedents 
against the liberty of England : Such things are the weakness of 
the times ; the tyranny of the one side, the feebleness of the other, 
the law of neither ; we will not be bound by them ; or rather, in the- 
words of the Declaration of Eight, ••no doing judgment, proceeding, 
or anywise to the contrary, shall be brought into precedent or ex- 
ample."' Do not, then, tolerate a power, the ^^ower of the British 
Parliament, over this land which has no foundation in utility, or 
necessity, or empire, or the laws of England, or the laws of Ireland, 
or the laws of nature, or the laws of Cod ; do not suffer it to have a 
duration in your mind. 

Do not tolerate that power which blasted yon for a century, that 
power which shattered your looms, banished your manufactures, dis- 
honored your peerage, and stopped the growth of your people; do 
not, I say, be bribed by an exjDort of woollen, or an import of sugar, 
and permit that power which has thus withered the land to remain 
in your country and have existence in your pusillanimity. 



Henry Grattan. 347 

Do not suffer the arrogance of England to imagine a surviring 
hoj)e ill the fears of Ireland; do not send the people to their own 
resolves for liberty, passing by the tribunals of justice and the high 
court of Parliament ; neither imagine that, by any formation of 
apology, you can palliate such a commission to your hearts, still less 
to your children, who will sting you with their curses in your grave 
for having interposed between them and their Maker, robbing them 
of an immense occasion, and losing an opportunity which you did 
not create and can never restore. 

Hereafter, when these things shall be history — your age of thral- 
dom and poverty, your sudden resurrection, commercial redress, and 
miraculotts armament — shall the historian stop at liberty, and observe 
that here the princi2:)al men among us fell into mimic trances of 
gi'atitude ^ they were awed by a weak ministry, and bribed by an 
empty treastiry ; and when liberty was within their grasp, and the 
temple opened her folding doors, and the arms of the people clanged, 
and the zeal of the nation ur2:ed and encourao:ed them on, that thev 
fell down and were prostituted at the threshold ? 

I might, as a constituent, come to your bar and demand my 
liberty. I do call upon you, by the laws of the land and their viola- 
tion, by the instruction of eighteen counties, by the arms, insjoira- 
tion, and providence of the present moment, tell us the rule by which 
we shall go, assert the law of Ireland, declare the liberty of the land. 

I will not be answered by a pubhc lie in the shape of an amend- 
ment ; neither, speaking for the subject's freedom, am I to hear of 
faction. I wish for nothino; but to breathe in this our island, in 
common with my fellow-subjects, the air of liberty. I have no 
ambition, unless it be the ambition to break your chain and contem- 
plate your glory. I never will be satisfied so long as the meanest 
cottager in Ireland has a link of the British chain clanking to his 
rags. He may be naked, he shall not be in irons ; and I do see the 
time is at hand, the spirit is gone forth, the declaration is planted ; 
and though great men should apostatize, yet the catise will live ; 
and thotigh the public speaker should die, yet the immortal fire 
shall outlast the organ which conveyed it, and the breath of liberty, 
like the word of the holy man, will not die with the prophet, but 
survive him. 

I shall move you, ^* That the King's most excellent Majesty, and 
the Lords and Commons of Ireland, are the only power competent 
to make laws to bind Ireland." 



34^ TJie P^'ose and Poetry of Irela^id, 

SPEECH ox THE CATHOLIC QUESTIOX. 
(Delivered in the Irish Parliament, Feb. 20, 1782.) 

SiK : I object to any delay that can be given to this clause." 
When this country had resolved no longer to crouch beneath the 
burden of oppression that England had laid upon her, when she 
armed in defence of her rights, and a high-spirited people demanded 
a free trade, did the Roman Cathohcs desert their countrymen ? 
Xo, no ; they were found among the foremost. TThen it was after- 
wards thought necessary to assert a free Constitution, the Eoman 
Catholics displayed their public virtue; they did not endeavor to 
make terms for themselves, but they entered frankly and heartily 
into the cause of their country, judging by their own virtue that 
they might depend upon your generosity for their reward. But 
now, after you have retained a free trade, after the voice of the 
nation has asserted her independence, they apjoroach the House as 
humble suppliants, and beg to be admitted to the common rights 
of men. Upon the occasions I have mentioned I did carefully ob- 
serve their actions, and did then determine to suj^port their cause 
whenever it came before this House. 

The question now is, whether we shall grant Roman Catholics the 
power of enjoying estates — whether we shall be a Protestant settle- 
ment or an Irish nation 7 Whether we shall throw open the gates 
of the temple of liberty to all our countrymen, or whether we shall 
confine them in bondage by jDcnal laws. So long as the j^enal code 
remains, we never can be a great nation. The penal code is the 
shell in which the Protestant power has been hatched, and now that 
it has become a bird it must burst the shell or perish in it. 

In Holland, where the number of Roman Catholics is compara- 
tively small, the toleration of their religion is an act of mercy to 
them ; but in this country it is an act of policy, an act of necessity, 
an act of incorporation. The question is not whether we shall show 
mercy to the Roman Catholics, but whether we shall mould the in- 
habitants of Ireland into a people ; for so long as we exclude Catho- 
lics from natural liberty and the common rights of man we are not 
a people. We may triumph over them, lut other nations will triumph 
over us. If you love the Roman Catholic, you may be sure of a re- 

'- A clause in the bill which moved that Irish Catholics be restored to the rigliU of pur- 
chasing, holding, and inheriting property. By the barbarous GoTemment of "RTigTA.Tiry 
they had long been deprived of any rights — even the right to breathe and live 1 



Henry Grattan. 349 

turn from him ; but if you treat him with cruelty, you must always 
live in fear, conscious tliat you merit his just resentment. Will you, 
then, go clown the stream of time, the Eoman Catholic sitting by 
your side, unblessing and unblest, blasting and blasted ? Or will 
you take off his chain, that he may take off yoiu*s ? Will you give 
him freedom, that he may guard your hberty ? 

I give my consent to the clause in its principle, extent, and liold- 
ness ; I give my consent to it as the most likely means of obtaining 
a victory over the prejudices of Catholics, and over our own: I give 
my consent to it because I would not keep 2,000,000 of my fellow- 
subjects in a state of slavery, and because, as a mover of the Declara- 
tion of Riglits, 1 wotild be ashamed of g^'^mg freedom to but 600.000 
of my cotmtrymen when I could extend it to 2,000.000 more. 



PHILIPPIC AGALN'ST FLOOD. 
{October 2S, ITSS.) 

It is not the slander of an evil tonsfue that can defame me. I 
maintain my reputation in public and in private life. Xo man 
who has not a bad character can ever say that I deceived ; no coun- 
try can call me a cheat. But I will suj^pose such a public charac- 
ter. I will suppose such a man to have existence ; I will begin 
with his character in his political cradle, and I will follow him to 
the last state of pohtical dissolution. 

I will suppose him in the first stage of his life to have been in- 
temperate, in the second to have been corrtipt, and in the last se- 
ditious : that after an envenomed attack on the persons and mea- 
sures of a succession of Viceroys, and after much declamation 
against their illegalities and their profusion, he took office, and be- 
came a supporter of Government when the profusion of ministers 
had gi'eatly increased, and theii- crimes mtiltiplied beyond example ; 
when your money bills were altered without reserve by the council ; 
when an embargo was laid on your export trade, and a war declared 
against the liberties of America. At such a critical moment I will 
suppose this gentleman to be corruj)ted by a gi'eat sinecure office to 
muzzle his declamation, to swallow his invectives, to give his assent 
and vote to the ministers, and to become a supporter of Govern- 
ment, its measures, its embargo, and its American War. I will sup- 



350 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

pose that lie was suspected by the G-overnmeiit that had bought 
him, and in consequence thereof that he tiiought proper to resort 
to the arts of a trimmer, the hxst sad refuge of disappointed ambi- 
tion ; that, with respect to the Constitution of his country — that 
part, for instance, which regarded the Mutiny Bill when a clause of 
reference was introduced whereby the articles of war which were, 
or hereafter might be, passed in England should be current in Ire- 
land without the interference of her Parliament — when such a 
clause was in view I will suppose this gentleman to have absconded. 
Again, when the bill was made perpetual, I will suppose him again 
to have absconded. But a year and a half after the bill had passed, 
then I will suppose this gentleman to have come forward, and to 
say that your Constitution had been destroyed by the perpetual bill. 
With regard to that part of the Constitution that relates to the law 
of Poynings, I will suppose the gentleman to have made many 
a long, very long, disquisition before he took office, but after he 
had received office to have been as silent on that subject as before 
he had been loquacious. That when money bills, under color of that 
law, were altered year after year, as in 1775 and 1776, and when 
the bills so altered were resumed and passed, I will suppose that 
gentleman to have absconded or acquiesced, and to have supported 
the minister who made the alteration ; but when he was dismissed 
from office, and a member introduced a bill to remedy this evil, I 
will suppose that this gentleman inveighed against the mischief, 
against the remedy, and against the person of the introducer, who 
did that duty which he himself for seven years had abandoned. 
"With respect to that part of the Constitution which is connected 
with the repeal of the 6th of George I., when the adequacy of the 
repeal was debating in the House I will suppose this gentleman to 
make no kind of objection ; that he never named at that time the 
word renunciation ; and that, on the division on that subject, he 
absconded ; but when the office he had lost was given to another 
man, that then he came forward and exclaimed against the measure ; 
nay, that he went into the |)T^hlic streets to canvass for sedition, 
that he became a rambling incendiary, and endeavored to excite a 
mutiny in the volunteers against an adjustment between Great 
Britain and Ireland of liberty and repose, which he had not the 
virtue to make, and against an Administration who had the virtue 
to free the country without buying the members. 

With respect to commerce, I will suppose this gentleman to have 



Henry Grattan, 351 

supported an embargo which lay on the country for three years, 
and almost destroyed it, and when an address in 1778 to open her 
trade was propounded, to remain silent and inactive ; and with re- 
spect to that other j)art of her trade which regarded the duty on 
sugar, when the merchants were examined in 1778 on the inade- 
quate protecting duty, when the inadequate duty was A^oted, when 
the act was recommitted, when another duty was proposed, when 
the bill returned with the inadequate duty substituted, when tlie 
altered bill was adopted — on every one of those questions I will 
suppose the gentleman to abscond ; but a year and a half after the 
mischief was done, he out of office, I will suppose him to come 
forth, and to tell his country that her trade had been destroyed by 
an inadequate duty on English sugar, as her Constitution had been 
ruined by a perpetual Mutiny Bill. With relation to three-fourths 
of our fellow-subjects, the Catholics, when a bill was introduced to 
grant them rights of property and religion, I will sujopose this gen- 
tleman to have come forth to give his negative to their pretensions. 
In the same manner I will suppose him to have opposed the institu- 
tion of the volunteers, to which Ave OAve so much, and that he went 
to a meeting in his own country to prevent their establishment ; 
that he kept himself out of their associations ; that he was almost 
the only man in this House that was not in uniform ; and tliat he 
never was a volunteer until he ceased to be a placeman, and until he 
became an incendiary. 

"With regard to the liberties of America, which were inseparable 
from ours, I Avill sujopose this gentleman to have been an enemy 
decided and unreserA'ed ; that he voted against her liberty, and 
voted, moreoA^er, for an address to send 4,000 Irish troojDS to cut 
the throats of the Americans ; that he called these butchers 
*^ armed negotiators," and stood with a metaphor in his mouth and 
a bribe in his pocket, a champion against the rights of America, 
the only hope of Ireland, and the only refuge of the liberties of 
mankind. 

Thus defective in every relationship, whether to Constitution, 
commerce, toleration, I will suppose this man to have added mucli 
private improbity to public crimes ; that his probity Avas like his 
patriotism, and his honor on a level with his oath. He loves to 
deliver panegyrics on himself. I Avill interrupt him, and say : Sir, 
you are much mistaken if you think that your talents have been as 
great as your life lias been reprehensible. You began your parlia- 



352 The Prose and Poet i-y of I 7- eland. 

mentaiT career witli an acrimony and personality whicli conld hare 
been justified only by a supposition of virtue. After a rank and 
clamorous opposition, you became on a sudden silent ; you were 
silent for seven years ; you were silent on tbe greatest questions, 
and you were silent for money I In 1773, while a negotiation was 
pending to sell your talents and your turbulence, you absconded 
from your duty in Parliament ; you forsook your law of Poynings ; 
you forsook tlie qtiestions of economy, and abandoned all tbe old 
themes of your former declamation ; you were not at that 
period to be found in the House ; you were seen, like a guilty 
spirit, haunting the lobby of the House of Commons, watching the 
moment in which the question shotild be jDUt, that you might van- 
ish. You were descried with a criminal anxiety retiring from the 
scenes of your 23ast glory ; or you were perceived coasting the upper 
benches of this House like a bird of prey, with an evil aspect and 
a septilcbral note, meditating to pounce on its quany. These ways 
— they were not the ways of honor — you practised pending a ne- 
gotiation which was to end either in your sale or your sedition. 
The former taking place, you stij^ported the rankest measures that 
ever came before Parliament — the embargo of 1776, for instance. 
^•'0 fatal embargo ! that breach of law and ruin of commerce I'* 
You supported the unparalleled profusion and jobbing of Lord Har- 
court's scandalotis ministry; the address to support the American 
War: the other address to send -l.OOO men whom you had yourself 
declared to be necessary for the defence of Ireland to fight against 
the liberties of America, to which you had declared yourself a friend ; 
vou. sir, who delisfht to utter execrations asrainst the American 
commissioners of ITTS, on account of their hostihty to America ; 
you, sir, who manufacture stage thunder against Mr. Eden for his 
anti- American principles ; you, sii', whom it pleases to chant a 
hymn to the immortal Hampden : you, sir, approved of the tyranny 
exercised ao:ainst America, and vou. sir. voted 4,000 Ii'ish troops to 
cut the throats of the Americans fighting for their freedom, fighting 
for your freedom, fighring for the great principle, liberty. But you 
found at last (and this should be an eternal lesson to men of your 
craft and cunnins:) that the kins^ had onlv dishonored vou; the 
coui't had bought, but would not trust, you : and, having voted 
for the worst measures, you remained for seven years the creatui'e 
of salary, without the confidence of Government. Mortified at the 
discovery, and stung by disappointment, you betake yourself to 



Heii7y Gi^attan. 



oo»> 



the sad expedients of duplicity ; you try the sorry game of a 
trimmer iu your progress to the acts of an incendiary ; you give 
no honest support either to the Government or tlie people ; 
you, at the most critical period of their existence, take no part, 
you sign no non-consumption agreement, you are no volunteer, 
you ojopose no perpetual Mutiny Bill, no altered Sugar Bill ; 
you declare that you lament that the Declaration of Eights should 
have been brought forward ; and observing, with regard to jirince 
and people, the most imj)artial treachery and desertion, you 
justify the suspicion of your sovereign by betraying the Govern- 
ment, as you had sold the people ; until, at last, by this hollow 
conduct, and for some other steps, the result of mortified ambition, 
being dismissed, and another person put in your j)lace, you fly to 
the ranks of the volunteers, and canvass for mutiny ; you announce 
that the country was ruined by other men during that period in 
which she had been sold by you. Your logic is that the repeal of a 
declaratory law is not the repeal of a law at all, and the ellect of 
that logic is an English act affecting to emancipate Ireland by exer- 
cising over her the legislative authority of the British Parliament. 
Such has been your conduct, and at such conduct every order of 
your fellow-subjects have a right to exclaim. The merchant may 
say to you, the constitutionalist may say to you, the American may 
say to you, and I, I now say, and say to your beard : Sir, you are 
not an honest man. 



REPLY TO CORRY. 
{February 14, 1800.) 

Has the gentleman done ? Has he completely done ? He was 
unparliamentary from the beginning to the end of his speech. 
There was scarce a word he uttered that was not a A'iolation of the 
i:)rivileges of the House, but I did not call him to order. Why ? 
Because the limited talents of some men render it im2)ossible for 
them to be severe without being unparliamentary. But before I 
sit down I shall show him how to be severe and parliamentary at 
the same time. On any other occasion I should think myself ju:]ti- 
fiable in treatins: with silent contempt anvthino' which mii^ht fall 
from that honorable member, but there arc times when the insigni- 
ficance of the accuser is lost in the magnitude of the accusation. 



4 

354 ^Z^*^ Prose ajid Poeti^y of Ireland, 

I know the difficulty the honorable gentleman labored nnder when 
he attacked me, conscious that, on a comparative view of oar 
characters, public and private, there is nothing he could say which 
would injure me. The public would not believe the charge. I 
despise the falsehood. If such a charge were made by an honest 
man, I would answer it in the manner I shall do before I sit 
down. But I shall first reply to it when not made by an honest 
man. 

The right honorable gentleman has called me '*' an unimpeached 
traitor." I ask, why not '^'traitor," unqualified by any epithet ? I 
Avill tell him it was because he dare not. It was the act of a 
coward who raises his aim to strike but has not courage to give the 
blow. I will not call him villain, because it would be unparliamen- 
tary, and he is a Privy Counsellor. I will not call him fool, because 
lie happens to be Chancellor of the Exchequer. But I say he is 
one who has abused the jDrivilege of Parliament and freedom of 
•debate to the uttering language which, if spoken out of the House, 
I should answer only with a blow. I care not how high his situa- 
tion, how low his character, how contemptible his speech ; whether 
XI Privy Counsellor or a ^^arasite, my answer would be a blow. He 
has charged me with being connected with the rebels ; the charge 
is utterly, totally, and meanly false. Does the honorable gentleman 
rely on the report of the House of Lords for the foundation of his 
assertion ? If he does, I can prove to the committee there was a 
physical impossibility of that report being true. But I scorn to 
answer any man for my conduct, whether he be a jDolitical coxcomb 
or whether he brought himself into power by a false glare of cour- 
age or not. I scorn to answer any wizard of the Castle throwing 
liimself into fantastical airs. But if an honorable and independent 
man were to make a charge against me, I would say: ^'You 
charge me with having an intercourse with the rebels, and you 
found your charge upon what is said to have aj)peared before a 
committee of the Lords. Sir, the report of that committee is 
totally and egregiously irregular." I will read a letter from Mr. 
ISTelson, who had been examined before that committee. It states 
that what the report represents him as having spoken is not tuhat 
lie said.^^ 

-^ Mr, Grattan here read a letter from Mr. Nelson denying that he had any connection 
with Mr. Grattan as charged in the report ; and concluding by saying, " JV6«e/' was mis- 
representation more -vile t/utn thatput into my mouth l>y the report.'"' , 



Henry Grattan, 355 

From the situation that I held, and from the connections I had 
in the city of Dublin, it was necessary for me to hold intercourse 
with various descrij)tions of persons. The right honorable member 
might as well have been charged with a jmrticipation in the guilt 
of those traitors ; for he had communicated with some of those 
very persons on the subject of parliamentary reform. The Irish 
Government, too, were in communication with some of them. 

The right honorable member has told me I deserted a profession 
where Avealth and station were the reward of industry and talent. 
If I mistake not, that gentleman endeavored to obtain those re- 
wards by the same means ; but he soon deserted the occupation of 
a barrister for those of a parasite and pander. He fled from the 
labor of study to flatter at the table of the great. He found the 
lord's parlor a better sphere for his exertions than the hall of the 
Pour Courts ; the house of a great man a more convenient way to 
23owcr and to place ; and that it was easier for a statesman of mid- 
dling talents to sell his friends than for a lawyer of no talents to 
sell his clients. 

For myself, whatever corporate or other bodies have said or done 
to me, I from the bottom of my heart forgive them. I feel I have 
done too much for my country to be vexed at them. I Avould 
rather that they should not feel or acknowledge what I have done 
for them, and call me traitor, than have reason to say I sold them. 
I will always defend myself against the assassin, but with large 
bodies it is different. To the people I will bow ; they may be my 
■enemy, I never shall be theirs. 

At the emancipation of Ireland in 1782 I took a leading joart in 
the foundation of that Constitution which is now endeavored to be 
destroyed. Of that Constitution I was the author; in that Con- 
.stitution I glory ; and for it the honorable gentleman, should bestow 
praise, not invent calumny. JSTotwithstanding my weak state of 
■body, I come to give my last testimony to this Union, so fatal to 
the liberties and interests of my country. I come to make common 
<)ause with these honorable and virtuous gentlemen about me ; to 
try and save the Constitution; or if not save the Constitution, at 
least to save our characters, and remove • from our graves the foul 
disgrace of standing apart while a deadly blow is aimed at the in- 
dependence of our country. 

The right honorable gentleman says I fled from the country after 
'exciting rebellion, and that I have returned to raise another. H^o 



356 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

such tiling. The charge is false. The civil war had not com- 
menced when I left the kingdom, and I could not have returned 
without taking a i^art. On the one side there was the camp of the 
rebel, on the other the camp of the minister, a greater traitor 
than that rebel. The stronghold of the Constitution was nowhere 
to be found. I agree that the rebel who rises against the G-overn- 
ment should have suffered, but I missed on the scaffold the right 
honorable gentleman. Two desperate parties were in arms against 
the Constitution. The right honorable gentlemen belonged to one 
of those parties, and deserved death. I could not join the rebels ; 
I could not join the G-overnment ; I could not join torture ; I could 
not join half -hanging ; I could not join free quarter ; I could take 
j)art with none. I was, therefore, absent from a scene where I 
could not be active without self-reproach, nor indifferent with 
safety. 

Many honorable gentlemen thought differently from me. I re- 
spect their opinions, but I keep my OAvn ; and I think now, as I 
thought then, that the treason of the ininister against tlie liberties 
of the p302jle tvas infinitely ivorse than the rebellion of the i^eople 
against tlie mi7iister. 

I have returned, not as the right honorable member has said, to 
raise another storm, I have returned to discharge an honorable debt 
of gratitude to my country, that conferred a great reward for ^oasfc 
services, which, I am proud to say, was not greater than my deserts. 
I have returned to protect that Constitution of which I Avas the 
parent and the founder from the assassination of such men as the 
honorable gentleman and his unworthy associates. They are cor- 
rupt — they are seditious — and they, at this very moment, are in a 
conspiracy against their country. I have returned to refute a libel 
as false as it is malicious, giA^en to the public under the appellation 
of a report of the committee of the Lords. Here I stand ready for 
impeachment or trial. I dare accusation. I defy the honorable 
gentleman ; I defy the Government ; I defy their whole phalanx. 
Let them come forth. I tell the ministers I will neither give them 
quarter nor take it. I am here to Jay the shattered remains of my 
constitution on the floor of this House in defence of the hberties of 
my country. 



THE RIGHT REV, JAMES DOYLE, D.D., 

O.S.A., 

BISHOP OF KILDARE AND LEIGHLIN. 

*'Dr. Doyle, the incomparable 'J. K. L.'" — Arnold. 

' ' Behold great Doyle ! with reverence speak his name — 
His life was virtue and his death was fame ! " 

" The most powerful faculty in Dr. Doyle's genius was his vigorous understand- 
ing. Perhaps no writer was ever more free from stiffness and mannerism. He 
was always practical and to the point." — Giles. 

WERE a person to yisit London a, little more than half a cen- 
tury ago, and were he permitted to traverse the halls of the 
House of Lords, he would there see before a select committee of Eng- 
lish peers a noble-looking personage wearing the habiliments and in- 
signia of a Catholic bishop. On further enquiry he might be told 
that this distiuguished man was giving evidence on the state of the 
Irish people, endeavoring to enlighten the dark and narrow minds 
of bigoted and ignorant statesmen, and eloquently pleading in favor 
of what he loved next to God — his native land. This Avas no other 
than the subject of our sketch. Dr. Doyle, the illustrious Bishop of 
Kildare and Leighlin. 

James Doyle was born near the town of New Eoss, county of Wex- 
ford, in 1786. His father was a small farmer, an upright, but very 
eccentric man, and belonged to a family whose rank was once high in 
his native county.^ Some months before the child's birth his father 
-died, and his support and education devolved on his mother, '^ a young- 
woman of vigorous and almost masculine strength of judgment."'' 
Like many other gifted men, James doubtless inherited his remark- 
able strength of character from his mother. In his twelfth year 
the boy was sent to a Catholic academy kejot by a zealous goriest 
named Father Crane, O.S.A. Here he pursued his studies until, 
becoming of canonical age, he entered the novitiate of the Augus- 
tinians, at Grantstown. His mind, naturally gifted and powerful, 

^ The O'Doyles were an ancient Irish sept. 
2 Pifczpatrick, "Life and Times of Dr. Doyle," vol. i. 

357 



358 The Pilose aiid Poetry of Irela7id, 

was imbued witli a deep religious feeling, the result of early and 
careful training. 

In 1806, young Doyle proceeded to'tlie continent to continue liis 
higher studies. Within the time-honored walls of the famous Uni- 
versity of Coimbra he labored Avith ceaseless industry. The uncoQi- 
mon calibre of our Irish student's mind was soon well-known. But 
a storm was coming. The invasion of the Trench upset everything. 
The landing of Wellington was the signal for resistance, and the 
students of Coimbra — foremost among who was Doyle — threw aside 
their books and assumed the helmet and the sword, to aid in driving 
the legions of Bonaparte from the soil of Portugal. 

Doyle had now reached a period in life when many dangers beset 
his path. He was young, was living in stormy times. The French 
Eevolution had swept over Europe, ujDrooting ancient landmarks, 
overturning almost everything social, political, and religious. The 
world seemed to be falling back into chaos. Voltaire and his infidel 
works did much to complete the disorder that prevailed. Doyle 
read those books. He was even surrounded by professed iufidels 
who boasted of their principles. Such dreadful influences gave, for 
a time, an unhappy bent to his youthful intellect. Often he paced 
the halls of his Alma Mater revolving within himself whether he 
should become an unbeliever or still remain a Christian. 

Speaking of this period of his life, the great j^relate afterwards 
wrote : ^^ I recollect, and always with fear and trembling, the danger 
to which I exposed the gifts of faith and Christian morality which I 
had received from a botmteous God ; and since I became a man, 
and was enabled to think like a man, I have not ceased to give 
thanks to the Father of mercies, who did not deliver me over to the 
pride and 2:)resumption of my own heart. But even then, when all 
things which could have an influence over my youthful mind coni- 
hined to induce me to shake ofl the yoke of Christ, I was arrested by 
the majesty of religion. Her innate dignity, her grandeur and solem- 
nity, as well as her sweet influence upon the heart, filled me with 
awe aud veneration. I examined the systems of religion prevailing' 
in the East; I read the Koran with attention; I perused the Jewish 
history, and the history of Christ, of his disci^Dles, and of his Church, 
with an intense interest, and I did not hesitate to continue attached 
to the religion of our Redeemer, as alone worthy of God ; and being" 
a Christian, I could not fail to be a Catholic. Since then my habits 
of life and profession have rendered me familiar at least with the 



The Right Rev, James Doyle, DD., O.S^4, 359 

doctrines and ordinances of divine reTelation, and I have often 
exclaimed with Augustine : * O beauty erer ancient and ever new ! 
too late have I known thee, too late have I loved thee.' '* ' 

On completing a bi-illiant course of studies at Coimbra, Doyle re- 
turned to Ireland in 1808. By uniting labor and perseverance to 
great talents, we are told that he had ** outstripped all his fellow- 
students, and was qualified to teach before others were half in- 
structed."* He was ordained the following year. In 1813 Father 
Doyle obtained a professorship in Carlow College. An anecdote is 
related in connection with this appointment. He was introduced 
7 3 Dean Staunton, the president- • • TThat can you teach ? " enqtiired 
the Dean. "Anything," replied Doyle, ^*from A, B, C to the 
^ Third Book of Canon Law.'" The president did not altogether 
like the confidence of the answer, and, long accustomed to the tni- 
rion of youth, a rebtike flowed with ease from, his Hps. **Pray, 
young man, am. you teach and practise humility ? "* ' • I trust I 
have at least the humihty to feel,*' answered Doyle, ••'that the more 
I read the more I see how ignorant I have been, and how httle can 
at best be known." The president was so struck with the reply 
:bat he mused, •'* You'll do." * Father Doyle was first appointed to 
the chair of rhetoric, then to that of philosophy and mathematics, 
and finally elevated to the professorsliip of theology and sacred 
Scripture. In the discharge of all these highly resjwnsible offices 
he displayed the ability of a master mind. But the hght of his 
life could not be hidden under a college bushel ; when only in his 
:hirty-second year Doctor Doyle was elevated to the united sees of 
Kildare and Leighlin.' v 

His life, henceforth, was given with unreseiTed devotion to his 
God, his people, his native Ireland. **His devotion to the affairs 
of his diocese," writes the Xun of Kenmare, ''from the care of the 
very j^oorest of his people to the supervision of his clergy, was be- 
yond all praise." ^ 

In 18.22 Bishop Doyle came out as a writer of marked ability. 
Ma gee, the Protestant Archbishop of Dublin, had insulted the 

5 " Letters on the State of Ireland." 

* Fitzpatrick's "■ life and Times of Dr. Doyle." 

' He -was appointed at the unaninwus request— a rare tribute of respect— of the Irish 
bishops and the clergy of the entire diocese. I>r. B. S. ilackenzde states that Doyle -was 
'* the youngest man ever raised to the prelacy in Ireland." — *' Sketches of the Irish Bar," 
ToL L, p. 3S, note. 

* ''Life of Daniel OConnelL" 



360 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

Catholics in a circular. Dr. Doyle at once replied. His letters — 
keen, bold, learned, and powerful — were signed ^* J. K. L." The 
public — so little accustomed to see or hear a brave word in favor of 
the down-trodden Catholics — were astonished ; and, to use a com- 
mon expression, Magee was extinguished. ** Who is the waiter ?" 
was the question asked by every one. It looked as if ^^ Junius" was 
yet alive, and turned Jesuit. But no ; it was a greater still. It was 
'' James, Bishop of Kildare and Leighlin ; hence the initials "J. K. L.'' 

In lS2i Dr. Doyle sent forth to the world an able and eloquent 
work entitled •'•'Vindication of the Roman Catholic People of Ire- 
land." In the same year he wrote his celebrated ^^ Twelve Letters 
on the State of Ireland." These, in their way, were masterpieces. 
He afterwards published the Letters in book-form, dedicating them 
to Daniel O'Connell. 

Dr. Doyle's Letters threw so much light on the state of Ireland, 
and were so frequently quoted in the British Parliament, that he 
was summoned to give evidence on the state of Ireland before a 
select committee of peers in the House of Lords. This occurred in 
1825, and of all the public acts of his life this was, perhaps, the 
greatest — certainly one requiring great abilities. His astonishing 
memory, ripe scholarship, and vast knowledge as a theologian, 
jurist, and politician, were never entirely known or called into requi- 
sition until this occasion. The questions asked and the answers 
given would fill a volume. ^^ You are examining Doyle ? " said a peer 
to the Duke of Wellington, as they met in the portico of the House. 
*'^Xo, no," replied the Iron Duke dryly; ^^ Doyle is examining us.' 
And he continued, '^ That Doyle has a prodigious mind; his head is 
as clear as rock-water. '* ' 

•^ Lord ," said Dr. Doyle afterwards, ^Hiad given me a volun- 
tary assurance that he would protect me throughout the examina- 
tion. My name was called, and I entered. What was my surprise, 
as I glanced round the varied array of faces before me, to find no 

trace of Lord 's cotmtenance I ^ Ah I " I soliloquized, ^ Lord 

Las abandoned me to the Philistines ; but there is another and 

a o-reater Lord who will not forsake me in the hour of need.' Seve- 
ral peers eagerly put questions to me. I never made a reply until 
I discovered the object which the enquirer had in view. His query, 
if insidious, I received on the 2:)oint of the bayonet. If a direct 
reply was unavoidable, I uttered a mental prayer to God that He 

' Fitzpatrick, "Life and Times of Dr. Doyle." 



The Right Rei\ James Doyle, DJD., OS^. 361 

would direct and protect me ; and He did so. I found it easier to 
answer the bishops than the lords." 

*• Who is there," says the Morning CJtronicIe, ** of the Established 
clergy of England, Ireland, or Scotland, for instance, to compare 
with Dr. Doyie ? Compare his evidence before the Poor-Law Com- 
mittee with that of Dr. Chahners, and the su|ieriority appears 
immense."' 

The effect of this evidence was most happy. It changed the 
principles of many British lords, who from inveterate foes of 
Ireland were transformed into fast friends. The influence of Dr. 
Doyle's labors in the cause of Catholic emancipation cannot be over- 
estimated. OConnell and he toiled hand in hand in obtaining that 
great Ijoon for the Catholics of Ireland and the British Empire. 

* * His influence, * writes Henry Giles, '' was very efficient in promot- 
ing O'ConneU's election for Clare, which was the decisive blow that 
brought the Tory statesmen to their senses. The j^en of Dr. Doyle 
was as jwwerful in its way as the tongue of O'ConnelL Dr. Doyle 
had influence over classes which O'Connell did not reach. Dr. 
Doyle's writings were read by aristocratic and educated men of all 
parties — men who would not listen to O'ConneU, and whom, if they 
would, O'ConneU coidd not convince. O'Connell had the ears and 
hearts of the masses ; Dr. Doyle had the attention and thoughts of 
the select." * 

We have not space to speak of Dr. Doyle as an eloquent preacher 
and iQustrious bishop. He was a bishop of bishops. 

" He tried each art. reproTed each doll delay, 
Allnred to brighter worlds, and led the way." 

*'He shone." writes Moonev. *^a continued liorht amon? the 
faithful. He embodied in his life the precepts, beauty, and poetry 
of religion. He pointed the way to Heaven with a hand tmtar- 
nished and unencumbered by grasped wealth. His precepts were 
deliyered in fascinating sj^eUs of eloquence, unbroken by any allu- 
sion to money, to house, or to lands. He exhibited during his 
episcojmte the learning, charity, and toleration of Fenelon com- 
bined with the heroic independence of St. Thomas a Becket. His 
years were few but glorious, Ireland will treasure his memory to 
the latest generations.'" 



o 



62 The Prose and Poetry 0/ Ireland, 



Dr. Doyle's unceasing toils, especially the nambeiiess letters, 
tracts, and essays that he wrote, acted as a continued strain on his 
physical and mental j^owers. Indeed, the activity of his mind was 
fast wearing out his delicate frame. His last hours were eloquent 
expressions of faith, hope, and chai'ity. But a few moments before 
he expired, he asked to be laid on the hard, uncarpeted floor, that 
he might die in a manner somewhat similar to his divine Master. 
The request was granted, and thus lying on the boards, his pure, 
great soul fortified by the sacraments of the Church, died this illus- 
trious Irish bishop on Sunday morning, June 16, 1834. He was 
only in liis forty-eighth year. 

Dr. Doyle, who was unacquainted with ^'the pride that apes 
humility," thus describes his own lofty character better than any 
other pen can do : ••'I am a churchman, but I am unacquainted 
with avarice, and I feel no worldly ambition. I am attached to my 
profession, but I love Christianity more than its earthly appen- 
dages. I am a Catholic from the fullest conviction ; but few will 
accuse me of bigotry. I am an Irishman, hating injustice, and 
abhorring with my whole soul the oppression of my country ; but I 
desire to heal her sores, not to a2:2Tavate her sufierinsrs." 

•'• Dr. Doyle,'' said a celebrated English statesman, *'* was as much 
superior to O'Connell as O'Connell was superior to other men.*' 

His tomb is in Carlow Cathedral, ornamented with a noble-look- 
ino- fiorure of himself from Hosfan's chisel. O'Connell relates that 
^hen this statue of Dr. Doyle was first exhibited Lord Anglesey 
and a party from Dublin Castle went to examine it. One of the 
jDarty said : •'I never remember seeing Dr.- Doyle in that remarkable 
position.'"' '^' I remember it well," interrupted the marquis. 
'* When he was giving evidence before a committee in the Lords, 
a peer put a ridiculous question which touched the Catholic doc- 
trine. Throwing up his arm just in that commanding way, the 
bishop said, ^ I did not think there was a British jieer so ignorant 
as to ask such a question. ' " 

Dr. Doyle was a man of extraordinaiy natural gifts. With a pro- 
digious memory, he possessed remarkable discernment, an excellent 
judgment, and a masculine courage that quailed before nothing. 
Indeed, it was generally well known that fear was a feeling utterly 
unknown to him. In mauner he was very grave and dignified. 
Speaking of him as a professor in Carlow College, his biographer 
WTites : ''Although Doyle was remarkably youthful in appearance, 



The Right Rev. James Doyle, D.D.. O.S.A, 36 



o 



a frequent expression of awe grew up in liis immediate presence. 
His general deportment was not by any means calculated to dimi- 
nish this feeling. Erect as a lath, grave as a judge, reserved, dig- 
nified, and austere, he was feared by some, beloved by those who 
knew him intimately, and revered by all. The noon-day sun was 
not more sj)otless than his dress and person." ^' 

••'He appeared at that era in Irish history," wi-ites Moonev, 
'*' when the people were yet in the most torpid state of despair, 
when nothing apj)eared in the surrotmding gloom but objects hor- 
rible to the sight. He entered with spirit, with honesty, and with 
unbounded acquirements the great i^olitical and religious contro- 
versies which then shook the British Empire. Everything that 
came from his pen or his tongue had weight. His mind vras un- 
fathomable. His thoughts were things, maxims, axioms, shaped in 
the mould of justice, learning, philosophy, and rehgion.*' " 

Speaking of the ''Twelve Letters on the State of Ireland," a 
work of 361: pages, Mr. Eitzpatrick writes: ••'Though written 
rapidly, with a view to assist the researches of the Parliamentary 
Committee on the State of Ireland, they can bear the severest ordeal 
of literary criticism. The views expressed are sound, sensible, 
courageous; the majority of them sparkle with the freshness of 
originality, while many passages swell with an indignant eloquence 
and vigor, which Grattan in his happiest jierorations has not 
stu'passed. "' 

••They present," says Eev. Mr. Brennan, ''a rare combination of 
eloquence, patriotism, and philosophy. The nerve and unlabored 
simplicity of the dicrion, together with the justness of the remarks 
with which they abound, rendered them perhaps the most j^ojmlar 
literary collection that has ever been published in'this country." ^' 

We have not space to point out the rare merits of this gi*eat 
Irish bishop's writings, or to depict their numerous beauties. His 
dictiou, like his intellect, was rich, luminous, splendid, and power- 
ful. With greater dignity and more massive strength, he possessed 
all the yrvx and sarcasm of •• Junius." Lord Bacon did not siirjiass 
**'J. K. L." in pointed brevity, nor was Edmund Burke more solid 
and subHme. 

" Pitzpatrick. " Life and Times of Dr. Doyle." 

^- •History of Ireland"" 

12 •'-Ecclesia.stical Historv of Ireland." 



364 The Prose and Poetry of Irela7zd. 

THE STUDENTS' ADIEU TO THEIK ALMA MATER. 

Moore, in his autobiographical sketch of his life, rerives the old remark that it 
■would be difficult to name any eminent public man, unless Pitt, who had not, at 
some time, tried his hand at verse. Dr. Doyle was no exception to this rule. In 
the summer of 1812, the religious students of the Catholic coUege at Ross were 
about to depart to their appointed convents, when Dr. Doyle — then a priest — 
at the earnest solicitation of the warm-hearted novices, composed the following 
farewell lines, to the air of " Bannows Banks." 

The drooping sitn concealed his rays behind the culttired bill ; 
The IcDgthening shade forsook the flood, or faded from the rill ; 
The blue smoke, curling from the cot, seemed lingering to the view. 
As if in nature's silent hour 'twould hear our last adieu. 

The tuneful bird now pensi\re sat, or smoothed its languid wing ; 
Its notes no longer closed the day, nor would the milkmaid sing ; 
The blooming meadow turned to gray, and lost its lovelier hue, 
When we by natttre's self were forced to take our last adieu. 

All human ties must break in time, new scenes old scenes replace; 
Hands may be rent, but hearts cannot be torn apart by space. 
Afl'ection makes one sad farewell, and love springs up anew — 
Love, the best passion of the heart, that sanctions our adiett. 

With minds improved, with grateful hearts, we leave the scene we 

love, 
"Where social virtues fix their seat, descended from above ; 
Where all that generous nattire yields, and gentle wishes woo. 
Lie round about our college hill, that hears our last adieu. 

Hail, College, hail ! thou blessed ahode, where innocence and mirth. 
Where frequent play and casual feast, made paradise on earth ; 
Mayst thou each year send forth, like us, a fond and fervent few. 
Who, when tlie hour of duty comes, will bid thy walls adieu. 

Ah I father of our college days, and must we go and leave 

Our boyhood's prop, our manhood's pride, our dream in life's last 

eve ? 
Parental fondness filled thy breast; let filial tears bedew 
These cheeks, made cheerful long by thee, whom now we bid adieu. 



The Right Rev. James Doyle, D.D.^ OS. A. 365 

"With feelings of fraternal love eacli heart responds for all ; 
Vie go, ^'immortal souls to save/' obedient to our call ; 
But ere we leave our college nest to cleave life's tempest through. 
Do thou, our father and our friend, receive our last adieu. 



OX PARTIES IX IRELAND. 

[From "Letters on the State of Ireland."] 

My Dear Sir : The object of this letter is to give you some idea 
of the state of parties in Ireland, their composition and ulterior 
views, and to throw some light on the character of our gentry. 

The country is divided into three great parties — the Orange- 
men, the Catliolics, and the Government party, besides a vast mass 
of inert matter, or what Swift would call prudent men, who, solely 
intent on their own interest, whisper away the characters of all tlie 
others, pass judgment in secret upon whatever occurs, are never 
pleased with anything, and are ready to pray Avith Cromwell or 
cry with Charles, but not until the contest between them is de- 
cided. 

The Orange party are next to the G-overnment in the paucity 
of their numbers, in their knowledge of court discipline, in the 
array of their responsible offices, in their legal forms and proceed- 
ings, in the formality of their attitude, in the show and circum- 
stance of their dignity, in keeping up a standing army, in adminis- 
tering oaths of allegiance, in having a council of state, ])lenipoten- 
tiaries, and envoys, with a public press to publish and defend their 
proceedings. 

This party would be even stronger than it is, and more than 
able to cope with either of the other two, if it were not overbearing, 
haughty, insolent, and crue]. Monoj)oly and injustice are written 
on its standards, oppression is its watchword, falsehood and slander 
are its heralds ; it has no reason or justice with it, but it is so 
clamorous and so menacing and so unblushing as to overwlielm or 
confound whomsoever would approach it with argument, or seek to 
treat with it on a basis just, useful, or honorable. 

This party, like Catiline and Cethegus, has collected into its 
ranks every spendthrift, every idler, every punished or unpunished 
malefactor, every public robber and private delinquent, all tlie gam- 
blers, all those whom glutton v or extravagance has reduced to want; 



366 The Prose and Poeti^y of Ireland. 

in fine, all wlio love commotion, and who ho^^e to live by corrnp- 
tion or to rebuild tlieir broken fortunes on the ruins of their 
country. 

There is also a large class of saints or fanatics, another of con- 
scientious Protestants, a third of traders in education, with almost 
the entire body of the established clergy, who, through fear or 
hatred of the Catholics, are induced to give their support to the 
Orangemen. These classes form, in appearance, a neutral power, 
but constitute in reality the force which sustains the warfare in this 
country. 

Government should exist for the sake of the people, and not 
the people for those who goTcrn them. The forms of speech to 
which we are accustomed sanction this mode of expression, and we 
may suppose, therefore, that the Government here is formed and 
carried on for the good of the community. The Catholics, there- 
fore, who are, morally speaking, the jDCople of this country, should 
engTOSS the ^orincipal attention of our rulers ; their interests in the 
state of Ireland should be considered like those of other subjects. 
Their rank or station or pro2:»erty, however resj^cctable, should not 
be so much contemplated as their numbers ; for just laws make no 
distinction in providing for the happiness and security of the rich 
more than of the poor. To treat of the Catholics, then, as of a 
party in Ireland is not altogether correct, according to this theory ; 
nor again is it just in point of law, for such is the profound wisdom 
of our laws that they almost ignore the existence of the people, and 
contemplate as subjects men who are nowhere to be found. 

The Catholics, then, under the fostering care of penal statutes, 
and quite unnoticed by the laws made to protect and foster the 
faithful subjects of this joart of the realm, have grown at least into 
a jiarty. 

This party is kept in a state of constant excitement ; they are 
goaded by the Orangemen, they are insulted by the press, they are 
taunted with insult by the education societies, the distiibutors of 
Bibles, and itinerant saints ; they are stripj^ed naked and almost 
starved by the squierarchy and church ; the Legislature does not at- 
tend to them ; the Government does not protect them ; the judges, 
who would not give a stone to them for bread, are generally inac- 
cessible to them ; they are reduced to such a state that thousands 
upon thousands of them look to death for repose, as the exhausted 
traveller looks to the shadow of a great rock in a land fain ting from 



The Right Rev. James Doyle^ D.D., O.S.A. 2)^^ 

heat. Add to tliese causes of excitement tlie liarangues of their 
own leaders, the recollection of their former greatness, the history 
of their country, recollections "' pleasing and moiiriifnl to the soul," 
and Avliich are known hy reading or by tradition to them all ; but, 
above all, we should add their enthusiastic attachment to the faith 
of their father^ — a faith rendered more and more dear to them by 
beino- dailv and hourlv reviled. "When you have considered all these 
things, you may judge of the state of feeliug which pervades the 
Catholic population. 

Shottld it be suffered to contintie ? Should this party or this 
j)eople, whichever it maybe called, remain neglected by the Legisla- 
ture — should their grievances be left unredressed — shotild their 
poor be left to perish — should their children be left a prey to Evan- 
gelicals and Methodists — should their religion continue to be in- 
sulted — should the agent, and the tithe-proctor, and the church- 
warden, like the toads and locust, come still in succession to devour 
the entire fruit of their industry — shotild their blood when wantonly 
spilled go unrevenged, we need no Pastorini to foretell the result. 
AVe have only to refer to our own history, or open the volume of 
human nature, in order to ascertain it. A Police Bill, and a Tithe- 
composition Bill, and an Insurrection Bill, and fifty thousand bayo- 
mets, may repress disturbances, but who can contemplate a brave and 
generous people so abused ? who can dwell in a country so accursed ? 
What man can appear before his God who has looked jmtiently at 
so much wrong, or who has not contributed by every legal means 
to relieve his fellow-creatures from sufferings so intense ? 

How often have I perceived in a congregation of some thousand 
persons how the very mention from my own tongue of the penal 
code caused every e\'e to glisten and every ear to stand erect I The 
trumpet of the last judgment, if sounded, would not produce a more 
perfect stillness in any assemblage of Irish peasantry than a strong 
allusion to the wrongs we suffer. And there are men who think 
that the country can be improved whilst such a temper continues, 
or that this temper will cease whilst emancipation is withheld. 
Vain and silly thought I ]\Ien who reason so know nothing of 
human nature, or if thev do, thev know nothins; of the nattire of 
Irishmen. 

The gentry have as many grades as there were steps in Jacob's 
ladder. Those of them who are possessed of large estates, and whose 
education and rank should lift them above local prejudices and bless 



368 The Prose and PoeUy of Ireland, 

tliem with a kuowledge oi meu and things, are for the greater part 
absent from the country ; they know not the condition of their ten- 
antiy. unless from the reports of their agents, some of whom, to my 
knowledge, are most excellent men, whilst others of them are un- 
feeling extortioners, who exercise over the tenantry an inconceivahle 
tyranny, and are the very worst description of opj^ressors. I hare 
the honor to remain, dear sir, J. K. L. 



THE IRISH AS A PROFOrXDLY RELIGIOUS PEOPLE. 

[Fxom " Letters on the State of Ireland."] 

The Irish are, morally speaking, not only religions, like other 
nations, but entirely devoted to religion. The geographical j^osition 
of the country, its soil and climate, as well as the state of society, 
have a strong influence in forming the natural temperament of the 
people. The Irish people are more sanguine than the English, less 
mercurial than the French ; they seem to be compounded of both 
these nations, and more suited than either to seek after and indulge 
in spiritual affections, ^lien it pleased God to have an Island of 
Saints upon earth, he prepared Ireland from afar for this high 
destiny. Her attachment to the faith once delivered to her was 
produced by many concurrent causes, as far as natural means are 
emj^loyed by Providence to produce effects of a higher kind. The 
difference of language, the pride of a nation, the injustice and crimes 
of those who would introduce amongst us a second creed, are assigned 
as the causes of our adhesion to that which we first received. These 
causes have had their influence, but there was another and a stronger 
power laboring in Ireland for the faith of the Gosj^el ; there was the 
natural disposition of the people suited to a religion which satisfied 
the mind and gratified the affections, whilst it turned them away 
from one whose origin, as it appeared to us, was tainted, and which 
stripped worship of substance and solemnity. Hence, the aboriginal 
Irish are all Catholics, for the few of them who have dejiarted from 
the faith of their fathers only appear '' rari mrntes in gurgite 
vasto,'^ 

To these are joined, especially within the ancient Pale, great 
numbers who have descended from the first settlers, and who in 



The Right Rev. ya^nes Doyle, D.D., OS. A. 369 

process of time have become more Irish than the Irish themselves. 
Eveiy year, also, adds considerably to their numbers, not only, as we 
supi^ose, through the influence of divine grace, but also by that at- 
tractive power which abides in the multitude ; so that were it not 
for the emoluments and pride attached to Protestantism, and the 
artificial modes resorted to for recruiting its strength, there would 
not remain in three provinces of Ireland, amongst the middling and 
lower classes, more than a mere remnant of the modern faith. These 
Catholics have for nearly three centuries been passing through an 
ordeal of persecution more severe than any recorded in history. I 
have read of the persecutions by Nero, Domitian, Genseric, and 
Attila, with all the barbarities of the sixteenth century ; I have com- 
2:)ared them with those inflicted on my own country, and I protest 
to God that the latter, in my opinion, have exceeded in duration, 
extent, and intensity, all that has ever been endured by mankind 
for justice' sake. 

The Irish Catholics are obliged to sweat and toil for those very 
ministers of another religion '^ who contributed to forge their chains. 
Their hay and com, their fleece and lambs, with the roots on which 
they feed, they are still compelled to offer at an altar which they 
deem profane. They still are bound to rebuild and ornament their 
own former joarish church and spire, that they may stand in the 
midst of them as records of the rights of conquest, or of the triumj)h 
of law over equity and the public good. They still have to attend 
the bailiff when he calls with the warrant of the churchwardens to 
collect their last shilling (if one should happen to remain), that the 
empty church may have a stove, the clerk a surjilice, the communion- 
table elements to be sanctified, though perhaps there be no one to 
partake of them ; they have also to pay a singer and a sexton, but 
not to toll a bell for them, with a schoolmaster, perhaps, but one 
who can teach the lilies how to grow, as he has no pupils. Such is 
their condition, while some half-thatched cabin or unfurnished 
house collects them on Sundays to render thanks to God for even 
these blessings, and to tell their woes to Heaven ! 

13 The Anglican or Protestant Church. 



370 The Pilose and Poetry of I?^ eland, 

THE TRUE FRIENDS OF THE POOR AXD THE AFFLICTED. 

A PICTURE OF SUFFERIXG IRELAXD. 
[From " Letters on the State of Ireland."] 

I AM laboring as the advocate of the poor, of the unprotected, 
and of the distressed. I can ask with Cicero how could I fail to be 
interested in the general agitation of religions and political, civil 
and ecclesiastical interests ; or how could I be insensible to the gene- 
rous impulse of our nature ? St. Paul himself exclaims : '' Quis 
infirmatur et ego no)i infirmor, quis scandilizahw et ego own urorp 
In every nation a clergyman is separated from society only that 
he may labor the more efficiently for his fellow-men, and his duty 
of administering to their temporal wants is not less pressing than 
that of devoting himself to their spiritual concerns. The one ought 
to be done by him, and the other ought not to be neglected. 

There are times and circumstances when he is justified, nay, 
when he is obliged, to mix Avith his fellow-countrymen, and to sus- 
pend his clerical functions whilst he discharges those of a member 
of society. I myself have once been placed in such circumstances, 
and devoted many a laborious hour to the service of a i^eople engaged 
in the defence of their rights and liberties. The clerical profession 
€xalts and strengthens the natural obligation we are all under of 
laboring for our country's welfare ; and the priests and prophets of 
the old law have not only announced and administered the decrees 
of Heaven, but have aided by their counsel and their conduct the 
societv to which Providence attached them. In the Christian dis- 
pensation i^riests and bishops have gTeatly contributed to the civili- 
zation and improvement of mankind ; they have restrained ambi- 
tion, they have checked turbulence, they have enlightened the 
councils of kings, and infused their own wisdom into laws and 
public institutions. Aiis and sciences are their debtors ; history 
and jarisprudence have been cultivated by them. They have been 
the teachers of mankind, and have alone been able to check the in- 
solence of power, or plead before it the cause of the opjoressed. 

The clergy of the Catholic Church liave been accused of many 
faults : but in no nation or at no time — not even bv the wi'iters of 
the reign of Henry the Eighth — have they been charged with be- 
traying this sacred trust, or embezzling the j^roperty of the poor. 
In Ii'eland, above all, where their possessions were immense, their 
liearts were never corrupted by riches; and, whether during the 



The Right Rev. James Doyle^ D.D., O.S.A, 371 

incursions of the Danes, or tlie civil wars, or foreign invasions, 
which desolated the country, it was the clergy who repaired the 
ravages that were committed, rebuilt cities and churches, restored 
the fallen seats of literature, gave solemnity to the divine worship, 
and opened numberless asylums for the poor. Whilst Ireland, 
though a prey to many evils, was blessed with such a clergy, her 
poor required no extraordinary aid ; the heavenly virtue of charity 
was seen to walk unmolested over the ruins of towns and cities, to 
collect the wanderer, to shelter the houseless, to sup2)ort the infirm, 
to clothe the naked, and to minister to every species of human dis- 
tress; but ^^ fuit Ilium et ing ens gloria Bardanidum I ^^ 

When the ancient religion was expelled from her possessions, and 
another inducted in her place, the church and the hospital and the 
cabin of the destitute became alike deserted, or fell into utter ruin. 
This change, with the others which accompanied or followed after 
it, in Ireland threw back all our social and religious institutions into 
what is generally called a state of nature — a state, such as Hobbes 
describes it, in which men are always arming or engaged in war. 
Clergymen,^'' so-called, still appeared amongst their fellow-men, but 
they were no longer "■ of the seed of those by whom salvation had 
been wrought in Israel *' \ they did not consider it a portion of their 
duty to be employed in works of mere}', or to devote the property 
which had passed into their hands to those sacred j)^^i'poses for 
Avhich it was originally destined. They were, like the generality of 
mankind, solely intent on individual gain, or the su23port or 
aggrandizement of their families, but totally regardless of those 
sublime virtues or exalted charities which the Gospel recommends. 
They found themselves vested with a title to the property of the 
poor ; they did not stop to enquire whether they held it in trust ; 
there was no friend to humanity who would impeach them for 
abuse, and they appropriated all, everything to Avhich they could 
extend their rapacious grasp. The churches were suffered to de- 
cay, and the spacious cloister or towering dome through which the 
voice of prayer once resounded became for a while the resort of owls 
and bats, till time razed their foundations and mixed up their ruins 
with the dust. The poor were cast out into the wilderness, and 
left, like Ishmael, to die ; whilst Ireland, like the afflicted motlier 
of the rejected child, cast her last sad looks towards them, and then 
left tliem to perish. These men '^ate the milk, and clothed them- 

^* Ministers of the Anglican Churcli. 



372 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

selves with the wool, and killed that which was fat ; but the flock 
they did not feed, the weak they did not strengthen, and that which 
was sick they did not heal, neither did they seek for that which was 
lost ; but they ruled over them with rigor and with a high hand.''"- 
They could not be blamed ; they had a title and a calling different 
from their predecessors ; ^^ and the state, from which they derived 
their commission, could not infuse into them virtues which can only 
emanate from Christ. 

The evidence already given to Parliament shows that the average- 
wages of a laboring man in Ireland (and a great mass of the poor 
are laborers) is worth scarcely THEEEPEi^CE a day ! Threepence "^ 
a day for such as obtain emj^loyment, whilst in a family where one 
or two persons are employed there may be four, perhaps six, others 
dependent on these two for their support ! Good God ! an entire 
family to be lodged, clothed, fed, on thkeepekce a day ! Less 
than the average price of a single stone of j)otatoes ; equal only to 
the value of a single quart of oatmeal ! What further ilhistration 
can be required ? Why refer to the nakedness, to the hunger of 
individuals ? Why speak of parishes receiving extreme unction be- 
fore they expired of hunger ? Why be surprised at men feeding on 
manure ; of contending with the cattle about the weeds ; of being- 
lodged in huts and sleeping on the clay ; of being destitute of 
energy, of education, of the virtues or qualities of the children of 
men ? Is it not clear, is it not evident, that the great mass of the 
poor are in a state of habitual famine, the prey of every mental and 
bodily disease ? Why are we surprised at the spectres who haunt 
our dwellings, whose tales of distress rend our hearts — at the dis- 
tracted air and incoherent language of the wretched father who 
starts from the presence of his famished wife and children, and 
gives vent abroad in disjointed sounds to the agony of his soul ? 

How often have I met and labored to console such a father ! How 
often have I endeavored to justify to him the ways of Providence, 
and check the blasphemy against Heaven which was already seated 
on his tongue ! How often have I seen the visage of youth, which 
should be red with vigor, ^oale and emaciated, and the man who 
had scarcely seen his fortieth year withered like the autumn leaf,, 
and his face furrowed with the wrinkles of old age ! How often 
has the virgin, pure and spotless as the snow of heaven, detailed to 
me the miseries of her family, her own destitution, and sought 

IS The Catholic clergy. '" About five cents. 



The Right Rev. James Doyle, D.D., O.S.A. 2>72> 

through the ministry of Christ for some supernatural support 
whereby to resist the allurements of the seducer and to preserve, un- 
tainted the dearest virtue of her soul ! But above all, how often 
have I viewed with my eyes, in the person of tlie wife and of the 
widow, of the aged and the orphan, the aggregate of all the misery 
Avliich it was possible for human nature to sustain ! And how 
often have these persons disappeared from my eyes, returned to 
their wretched abode, and closed in the cold embrace of death their 
lives and their misfortunes ! What light can be shed on the dis- 
tresses of the Irish poor by statements of facts when their notoriety 
iind extent are known throughout the earth. 

But Ireland, always unhappy, always oppressed, is reviled when 
she complains, is persecuted when she struggles ; her evils are suf- 
fered to corrode her, and her wrongs are never to be redressed ! 
We look to her pastures, and they teem with milk and fatness ; to 
her fields, and they are covered with bread • to her flocks, and they 
<ire numerous as the bees which encircle the hive; to her ports, 
they are safe and spacious ; to her rivers, they are deep and navi- 
gable ; ifo her inhabitants, tliey are industrious, brave, and intelli- 
gent as any people on earth ; to her position on the globe, and slie 
seems to be intended as the emj^orium of wealth, as the mart of 
universal commerce ; and yet, . . . but no, we will not state 
the causes, they are obvious to the sight and to the touch; it is 
enough that the mass of her children are the most wretched of any 
civilized people on the globe. 



THE CATHOLIC RELIGION. 

[From " Vindication of the Principles of the Irish Catholics."] 

It was the creed, my Lord, of a Charlemagne and of a St. Louis, 
•of an Alfred and an Edward, of the monarchs of the feudal times 
jis well as of the Emperors of Greece and Eome. It was believed 
at Venice and at G-enoa, in Lucca and the Helvetic nations in the 
days of their freedom and greatness ; all the barons of the middle 
<iges, all the free cities of later times, professed the religion we now 
profess. You well know, my Lord, that the charter of British free- 
dom and the common law of England liaA'e their origin and source 
in Catholic times. Who framed the free constitutions of the Spanish. 
■Goths ? Who preserved science and literature during the long night 



3 74 '^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

of the middle ages ? Who imported hterature from Constantinople 
and opened for her an asylum at Eome, Florence, Padua, Paris, and 
Oxford ? Who polished Europe by art and refined her by legisla- 
tion ? Who discovered the New World and opened a passage to 
another ? Who were the masters of architecture, of painting, and 
of music ? Who inyented the compass and the art of printing ? 
Who Avere the poets, the historians, the jurists, the men of deep re- 
search and profound literature ? Who have exalted human nature 
and made man appear again little less than the angels ? Were they 
not almost exclusively the professors of our creed ? Were they who 
created and professed freedom under every shape and form unfit for 
her enjoyment ? Were men, deemed even now the lights of the- 
world and the benefactors of the human race, the deluded victims 
of a slavish superstition ? But what is there in our creed which 
renders us unfit for freedom ? Is it the doctrine of passive obedi- 
ence ? No ; for the obedience we yield to authority is not blind, 
but reasonable. Our religion does not create despotism; it sup- 
ports every established constitution which is not opposed to the- 
laws of nature, unless it be altered by those who are entitled ta 
change it. In Poland it sup]Dorted an elective monarch ; in Prance, 
an hereditary sovereign ; in Spain, an absolute or constitutional king- 
indifferently ; in England, when the houses of York and Lancaster 
contended, it declared that he who was king de facto was entitled to 
the obedience of the j^eople. During the reign of the Tudors there 
was a faithful adherence of the Catholics to their prince, under 
trials the most severe and galling, because the Constitution required 
it. The same was exhibited by them to the ungrateful race of 
Stuart ; but since the expulsion of James (foolishly called an abdi- 
cation) have they not adopted with the nation at large the doctrine 
of the Ee volution — '^^ that the crown is held in trust for the benefit 
of the people, and that should the monarch violate his compact, the 
subject is freed from the bond of his allegiance." Has there been 
any form of government ever devised by man to which the religion 
of Catholics has not been accommodated ? Is there any obligation^ 
either to a prince or to a constitution, which it does not enforce ? 

What, my Lord I is the allegiance of the man divided who gives 
to Caesar what belongs to Caesar and to God what belongs to God ? 
Is the allegiance of the priest divided who yields submission to his 
bishop and his king ? of the son who obeys his jjarent and his 
prince ? And yet these duties are not more distinct than those 



TJu Riz'i: Rr.. j2y?ies Doyk. DJ:>^ O.S.A. 375 

which we owe our soTereign and our spiritual head. Is there auT 
man in society who has not distinct duties to discharge ? Mav not 
the same person he the head of a corporation and an officer of the 
king ? a justice of the peace, perhaj^, and a bankrupt surgeon with, 
half his pay ? And are the duties thus imposed upon him incom- 
patible with one another ? If the Pope can define that the Jewish 
Sabbath is dissolTed and that the Lord's day is to be sanctified, may 
not this be believed without prejudice to the act of settlement or 
that for the limitation of the Crown ? If the church decree that on 
Fridays her children shall abstain from flesh-meat, are they thereby 
controlled from obeying the king when he summons them to war ? 

Xo, I conclude it is impossible that any rational man could sup- 
pose that the Catholics, under equal laws, would be less loyal, less 
faithful subjects than any others 



EDFCATIOX. 

XzxT to the blessing of redemption and the graces consequent 
upon it; there is no gift bestowed by God equal in yalue to a good 
educatioiL Other adTantages are enjoyed by the body ; this belongs 
entirely to the spirit, WhatcTer is great, or good, or glorious in the 
works of men is the fruit of educated minds. TTars, conquests, 
commerce, all the arts of industry and peace, all the refinements of 
life, all the social and domestic Tirtues, all the refinements and 
delicacies of mutual intereourse ; in a word, whatever is estimable 
amongst men, owes its origin, increase, and perfection to the exer- 
cifle of those faculties whose improvement is the object of educa- 
tion. Beligion herself loses half ber beauty and influence when not 
attended or agisted by education, and ber power, splendor, and 
majesty are never so exalted as when cultivated genius and refined 
taste become her heralds or ber handmaids. Many have become 
fools for Christ, and by their simplicity and piety exalted the glory 
of the cross; but Paul, not John, was the apostle of nations, and 
doctors, more even than prophets, have been sent to declare the 
truths of religion befoie kings and princes and the nations of the 
eartlL Education draws forth the mind, improves its faculties, in- 
creases its i^sOTirces, and by exercise strengthens and augments its 
powers. I consider it, therefore, of inestimable value ; but, like 
gold, which is the instrument of human happiness, it is and always 



^^6 The Pilose and Poetry of Ireland. 

mu?r be unequally distributed amongst men. Some "will always be 
unable or unwilling to acquire it, others will expend it prodigally 
or pervert it to the worst ends, whilst the bttlk of mankind will 
always be more or less excluded from its possession. ^^ 



LETTER TO HIS XIECE. 

Carlow College,'* 4th Xoyember, 1814. 

My Dear Mary : I find the longer a correspondence is inter- 
rupted the more difficult it is to restime it. My situation in hfe, 
my yiews, my prospecte, my acqtiaintances are so different from 
yours, and so little known to you, that I can scarcely find a subject 
for a letter when I wish to write, nnless I were to fill it with expres- 
sions of esteem for vou and interest in yottr welfare ; btit this 
Avould be useless at present. 

You might expect that I would be offering yoit advice, and so I 
should if it were necessaiy ; but in your own family yoti have enough 
to consult, and my only wish is that yott should always act in con- 
cert with your htisband and mother, and at all times prefer their 
wishes and opinions to your own. 

A thottsand thino-s occur in your town and county, and vet yott 
stand so much on ceremony with me that yoti would not write me a 
single word unless I had formally reqttested of yoti to do so. 

As to myself, I have little to say ; if good health and a good fire- 
side, plenty of labor, plenty of money, ^^ and a good name be advan- 
tages, I enjoy them to the fullest extent. I feel contented; and, 
except when a recollection of poor Pat '° disturbs my mind, I might 
say that none of my family can be more ha23py. Providence has 
[been particularly kind to me. I strive to thank God every day ; 
\and, as I pray for yoti as well as myself, I hope you will do the 
same for me in your turn. 

I had promised to sj)end the Christmas vacation at Kilkenny 
with Dr. Martim ; but as he is about to be consecrated Bisho}^ of 
Ossorv, he may be so occupied that I would not wish to intrude on 
him. Adieu. 

Believe me, most truly and affectionately, yours, 

J. Doyle. 

1" " Letters on the State of Ireland." letter vi. 
1'^ At this date Dr. Doyle was a professor in Carlow College. 

'•^ His salary as professor was $1*25 a year. The apostolic Doyle considered this 
••plenty.' 
"-" Hi s brother, a gifted young lawyer, who died some time before. 



The Right Rev. James Doyle, D.D., OS. A. 2>n 

LETTER TO A XUN ^^ IX DUBLIN. 

RoBERTSTOWX, 29 til April, 1824. 

Mt Dear Maeiaxa.: After straying llirougli almost every part 
of tliis diocese, like your last letter, I find myself here in the midst 
of an immense hotel, through which all the elements are driving 
furiously, and having packed up my papers and finished about 
half a dozen letters, I fold my arms and put myself to think on what 
1 have next to do. 

Your letter, endorsed by the postmarks of the various towns, 
ending witii Derrig or Derg, through which it had been missent, 
occurred to me as still waiting amongst others to be disposed of, 
and, though my head is confused and my spirits exhausted, I am 
resolved to tell you that I am strongly inclined to go up to Dublin 
to tell you some silly story by way of aj)ology for not replying to 
your letters ; but as I may be obliged to take some other direction, 
it is necessary, I suppose, to inform you that Avlien your last note 
reached me I was just leaving home with an intention of seeing 
you before my return. Mr. Fitzgerald, also, when leaving Carlow 
promised to see you, to present you with my comj^liments, and to 
tell me on his return all the good news he could collect of you and 
of my dear Catherine." The favorable account you gave in your 
letter of the state of her health lessened my anxiety about it, and 
increased my desire of seeing her, should I be able to go to Dublin, 
and ascertain with my own eyes that improvement which I so anx- 
iously wish for. 

From the exhausted state of my mind, I am unable to write you a 
very long letter. lam just going to dine at Mr. Dease's. I must re- 
main in that neighborhood until after Sunday, and whether I can 
go up to town before my return is somewhat uncertain. If not, I 
shall be deprived of the ]3leasure of seeing my dear child until June 
next, when she may be so much restored as to come to cull the 
flowers at old Derrig, which always droop in the absence of the 
Hermit [Dr. Doyle], who unhappily is driven from them in the sum- 
mer ; but probably they might continue in bloom till his return if only 
a genial breath fell upon them from the countenance of his friend, or 
a tear of sympathy for the absence of their solitary guardian. Tell 

"1 :^tariana -was an accomplished young Irish lady, the daughter of a Protestant banker. 
She became a Catholic, and finally a religious, and found a wise and dear friend in Dr. 
Doyle. Many years afterwards she became superioress cf a convent. 

-2 Mariana's sister, who had also embraced the ancient faith. 



37^ ^/^^ Prose and Poetry of Ii^ eland. 

her how truly I rejoice at the prospect of her thorough recovery. 
Bless the httle, the good Sarah for her blessing to me, and with best 
respects to her who is blessed by you all — your mother — believe me 
always, dear Mariana, etc. 

•J« J. Doyle. 



LETTER IX REPLY TO A "WOLFF" IX SHEEP'S CLOTHIXa." 

Caklow, 17th October, 1826. 

SiE : I have received your letter written at Knaresborough. I 
regret that a young person, such as you are, should continue in the 
deltision in which you seem to live. It is, perhaps, my duty to tell 
you that your '•'challenge," as you call it, excited in this county 
nought but ridicule, and that you might as justly expect one of the 
judges in the courts of law to descend from the bench and dispute 
with you about the code which he administers as to hope that any 
Catholic bishop would attend to your *'• challenge.*' 

My dear young man, you are either deceived, or seeking to deceive 
others. I did not refuse to see you ; I refused to admit you to re- 
side in my family, and for the reasons explained in my note to you 
on the subject. Did you at any time call upon me to consult with 
me as to what you should do, or to enquire what you want to know, 
I would offer to you the best advice or information in my power. I 
feel for you nought but pity and compassion. You have strayed 
from the truth. Ton are very much occupied with yourself. You 
err greatly as to your own value or eflS.ciency. You are not ca^Dable 
of rendering service to your brethren, whether Jews or Gentiles, 
whilst you yourself continue a victim of delusion or a hypocrite, as 
you must be, if you be not a fanatic. 

Your correspondence with me can serve no good purpose ; may I 
request, therefore, that it cease, and should you at any time call 
upon me, pray present yourself Avithout an inclination to dispute, 
for ^^if any one love disputes, we have no such custom,*' says an 
Apostle. ►}• J. Doyle. 

23 Rev. J. Wolff was an apostate student of the Propaganda. He came to Ireland as a 
Protestant preacher, and one of his eccentric feats was to issue a ••challenge" to the Ca- 
tholic bishops of Ireland to meet him in argument ! The bishops, of course, did not no- 
tice the buzzing theological insect Wolff, finally, addressed himself to Dr. Doyle, who 
snuffed him out with the foregoing letter. 



TJu Right Rcz'. James Doyle, D.D., O.S^4. 379 

LETTER T<:> HIS XIECE. 

Caelow. 15tli August J 1828. 

Mt Deab Ma^t : Since J. W handed me your letter I have 

had little leisui-e to reply to it. but as I am about leaving home on 
mv visitation, and will not return for six weeks, I must discharge 
my debt to you, though it is now late at night, and this has been 
with me a day of great labor. 

It is no wonder that your constitution should be altered by so 
many and so severe attacks, and it may be that Providence will re- 
new your youth, now that you are taught how to tise it well. All 
things, without doubt, work together for the good of the elect, and 
it often hapi^ens tliat nothing less than continued and severe iUness 
would preserve them in the fear of God and the observance of liis 
commands. Unless we sigh after otir eternal abode, we will not 
enter it, and when all things are agi-eeable to us here below we 
rather fear than wish for an exchange. I think, therefore, my dear 
Mary, considering the temporal blessings which have attended you, 
that if you had not been chastened by the pressure of the cross, you 
might have become worldly in your disposition, tepid in the exercise 
of religion, and too little desirous of eternal life. I am sure, however 
great my affection for you — aud there is scarcely any person whom 
I more love — that what I esteem most in vou is that relio:ious dis- 
position, that patience and forgiveness towards others, and that 
cordial charity to the poor with which our good God has always in- 
spired you. You wiU not cease to thank him and to promote his 
will on earth whilst you remain here, and whether you and I often 
meet on this side of the grave is of little consequence. 

Our mutual interest and affection for each other will not be di- 
minished, and the grace of Christ and the virtue of his holy reli- 
gion will enable us to serve each other by oui* mutual prayers. 

I intend to keep my promise of seeing you at the time I men- 
tioned, if we be still alive. Mv health is often verv o^ood and some- 
times not so : my incessant cares and labors are weariug my consti- 
tution, but that gives me no concern. I have lived long enough if 
I were but prepared to die: but the day or the hotir of the depart- 
ure is known only to God : our business is to be always prepared. 
Pierce ** is really a very good boy ; I am very fond of him and hope 
he will be virtuous. As to his talents, they are sufficient : I scarcely 

" '■ Pierce," the bishop's nephew. 



o 



80 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland, 



wisli to have them better. Great talents are often a great evil ; 
those which have been given to me have led me into many useless 
labors and desires ; they are like riches, which render the way to 
heaven narrow as the eye of an needle. Go see Peter, and remem- 
ber me to all friends, esjoecially to your mother and John ; and be- 
lieve me, my dear Mary, most affectionately yours, 

•J* J. Doyle. 



LETTER TO DAXIEL O'CONXELL." 

Caelow, 12th January, 1829. 

My Dear Sir : He who speaks often and handles exciting topics 
will not fail to commit mistakes and to give offence, nor can a 
2)oimlar assembly, writhing under injustice, be justly condemned 
for the excesses into which it may be betrayed. 

We do not claim exemption from error, but the purity of our 
principles entitles all we do and say to the most charitable construc- 
tion, whilst those who ojopose and condemn us, even when their 
language is fair and their proceedings moderate, deserve reproach, 
because they are not sustained by any sound principle either of 
justice or policy. I think I can judge without passion, and I can. 
find nothing in the conduct of our opponents resj^ected. "Who can 
respect ignorance or stupidity ? Who can defer to bigotry or 
monopoly ? All opposition is founded on ignorance, religious in- 
tolerance, or self-interest. 

When you proceeded to combat this opposition in Clare, I saw to 
its fullest extent the difiQculties and dangers, public and personal, 
to be encountered ; but I thought they ought to be braved, and I 
cheered you upon your way. You were well fitted for that contest, 
but that which is now before you is of a different and more delicate 
character. Courage, j^erseverance, and address were then necessary, 
but in addition to them you now require Parliamentary knowledge, 
great fortitude, and that cool deliberation which cannot be circum- 
vented, but knows how to turn every occurrence to the best account. 

The suaviter in modo and fort ite?' in re, so little suited to us IrisJi, 
would be always useful to you, but in your aj)proaching struggle 
will be indispensable. You will have to give ^' honor to whom 
honor is due,'' whilst you enforce the rights you possess, knowing 

"° This -was -written shortly after O'Connell's election as MP. for Clare. 



The Right Rev. James Doyle, D.D., OS.A. 381 

that they belong to you even as the crown belongs to a king. AYere 
I not of a j)rofession which prescribes to me other duties, I should 
attend you to the door of the House of Commons and share in your 
success, for success must attend, you ; but at home I shall pray un- 
ceasingly to him who holds in his hands the hearts of men, that 
he may direct and prosj^er you in all your ways, that he may 
vouchsafe to give peace in our days, and not suffer his people to be 
tried beyond what they can bear. 

Yours most sincerely, 

*fi J. Doyle. 



LETTER TO HIS NIECE. 

Caelow, 26th May, 1831. 

My Dear Maey : You may be assured I participated both in 
your anxiety during the late elections and in your joy at the result. 
1 am very much obliged to you for your letters, and delayed writing 
to acknowledge them until I should receive that other letter which 
you promised; but your promise was like most of those made at 
elections — not to be relied on ; and having despaired of its fulfil- 
ment, I hasten to congratulate you and all our friends on the issue 
of our struggle against the old and irreclaimable enemies of our 
country. 

I should never again have boasted of my native country had she 
not acted now as she has done, for I knew the power was in her if 
she had only virtue to exert it ; and if she had not, I would resign 
her to the Saxons or' Normans, and attach myself to some more 
Celtic soil. I have, however, been spared the pain of separation, 
and I will continue attached to the country of my birth. Our vic- 
tory here was signal. We had no aid but God and our own 
strength ; but when a good cause is well conducted it succeeds in 
spite of all oj)position. 

The affairs of Ireland are beginning to improve, but they are only 
beginning. We have many difficulties to contend with, and if we 
relax we will be thrown back ; for our enemies, though now defeated, 
have still great resources, and have no notion of quitting the field. 
You have an excellent representative in Mr. W^alker, and I trust 
Mr. Lambert Avill realize all your hopes of him. Write me that 
long letter you promised when your head is composed. Tell John, 



o 



82 The Prose and Poetry of Irelaiid. 



Kicliard, and all mj friends liow delighted I was with the exhibi- 
tion of their patriotism. Say everything kind for me to your 
mother and to the family at Piercestown. 

Affectionately yours, 

Hh J. Doyle. 



LETTER TO ANOTHER NIECE. 

Carlow, February 22, 1833. 

My Deae Kate : I am very glad to hear from you, and particu- 
larly gratified to know that the Eev. Mr. 0' was about to be 

restored for some time longer to his health and friends. Of all 
those who regret his pain or sympathize Avith him in his suffer- 
ings, we should be the first, as we always enjoyed the advantage of 
his special friendship and affectionate regard. Pay him a visit for 
me ; tell him how much 1 lamented his illness, and how I rejoice at 
the prospect of his recovery; for though I hoj^e his demise, when- 
ever it may occur, will be only a removal to a happy life, still I 
cannot but wish that his stay in this world may be somewhat more 
jn'olonged. 

It is well that you have not been visited by the cholera, which 
has kept us in a state of alarm for several months. How are all 
your little ones ? When you write to me, dear Kate, you must 
change your mode of address. What you use is too stiff and school- 
like. You must be familiar, and easy, and affectionate when writ- 
ing or conversing with me; so begin your letters with ^^ My Dear 
Uncle," and end them in the same way; and do not think how or 
what you write, but set down everything that comes intoy our head, 
as a child tells a story to a father. Adieu. 

Yours most affectionately, 

*f« J. Doyle. 



GERALD GRIFFIN, 

" A sure Xssl, it has been often said, as to the good influence of a writer is 
that when we lay aside his book we feel better in onrselTes, and we think better 
of others. This test, I believe, Gerald Griffin can safely stand.'' — Giles. 

••Poetry was his first and greatest inspiration, and if his natural bent had 
been properly encouraged, he would probably have been the greatest of the Irish 
po^s." — Hayes, 

THE name of Gerald GriflSn is one of tlie purest and brightest in 
the history of literature. It is surrounded, by a halo of glory, 
and Yirtue, and romance. 

Gerald, the ninth son of Patrick Griffin, was born '* in one of the 
most ancient and celebrated parts *' of the city of Limerick, on De- 
cember 12, 1803. His parents Wonged to old Irish and Catholic 
families of great respectability. His father was a man of intelli- 
gence, and if remarkable for anything, it was his quiet humor and 
unruffled good nature. His mother was a lady of great elevarion of 
baracter, religious, earnest, and very aSectiocate. ** She was," 
writes Gerald's biographer," **a person of exceedingly fine taste on 
most subjects, particularly on literature, for which she had a strong 
original tum^ and which was indeed her jjassion.*' Her passion for 
letters and her deep sensibility, '*' the restless and inexhaustible 
fountain of so much happiness and so much pain, she handed down 
to her son Gerald in all its entireness." * 

Of his first schoolmaster an anecdote is related. Mrs. Griffin 
went to school with the boys on the first day of their entrance. 

• Mr. MacEligot," said she, *'you will oblige me very much by pay- 
ing particular attention to the boys' pronounciation and making 
them perfect in their reading.'' He looked at her with astonish- 
ment. '•Madam,*' he abruptly exclaimed, ''you had better take 
vour children home: I can have nothinsr to do with them.'' She 
exj^ressed some surprise. "Perhaps, Mrs. Griffin,'' said he, after a 
pause, **you are not aware that there are only three persons in Ire- 
land who know how to read." ••Three!' said she. "Yes, 

* Gerald's " Life,'* written by his brother, Daziiel GiifBit, is one of the most charming 
biographies in the "Rngligli langoage. 

- •• Life of Griffin, "' by his brother. 



384 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

madam, there are only three — the Bishop of Killaloe, the Earl of 
Clare, and your humble servant. Eeading, madam, is a natural 
gift, not an acquirement. If you choose to expect impossibilities, 
you had better take your children home." Mrs. Griffin found 
much difficulty in keeping her countenance; but, confessing her 
ignorance of this important fact, she gave the able but vain and ec- 
centric pedagogue ^ to understand that she would not look for a 
degree of perfection so rarely attainable, and the matter was made 
up. 

In 1810, Grerald being in his seventh year, Mr. Griffin with his 
family moved from the city to a place in the country, which he 
named Fairy Lawn. It was situated on the Shannon, about twenty- 
eight miles from Limerick. Here young Griffin, either at schoolor 
at home, received the greater part of his education. He read 
widely, and acquired a good knowledge of classical literature. Here 
he also learned to read and admire the works of God in the beau- 
ties of nature. On the banks of the lordly Shannon, in the solitude 
of the fine fields and woods, or in the solemn stillness of grand old 
ruins, he had the training which was best suited to his character and 
genius. The ruined abbey and the picturesque hillside were to him 
poems which yielded ideas lofty and sublime. '^ The influence on 
his mind," writes Henry Giles, ^' of natural beauty and of ancient 
traditions may be traced in all his writings, both of poetry and of 
prose. He had equally a passion for nature and a passion for the 
past."' 

After the Griffin family had lived in Fairy Lawn for a consider- 
able number of years, they were induced to emigrate to America by 
an elder brother of Gerald's, an officer in the British army. This 
occurred in 1820. Mr. and Mrs. Griffin, wdth a portion of the 
family, chose for their future abode a sweet spot in Pennsylvania, in 
Susquehanna County. In memory of their former Irish home, they 
called it Fairy Law^n. Gerald, who was intended for the medical 
j)rofession, remained in Ireland under the guardianship of an older 
brother. Dr. William Griffin, who took uj) his residence at Adare, 
about ten miles from Limerick. Two sisters and his brother 
Daniel — afterwards Gerald's biographer — also remained in the old 



3 One of Mr. MacEligot's advertisements began thus : " When ponderous pollysyllables 
promulgate professional powers ■' ! What alliterative bombast ! We hope Mr. MacEli- 
got's elocution was better than his style of writing. 

4 " Lectures and Essays."' 



Gerald Griffin, 385 

land. Under his excellent brother's instruction, Gerald made some 
jH'ogress in his medical studies, until that passion arose whicli soon 
swallow'ed up all other desires. 

When a mere child he exhibited his love of poetry. He read the 
poets with delight. The little fellow had a scrap-book into which 
he carefully copied many of Moore's 'Olelodies.'' He also had ^^a 
secret drawer in which he kept papers, and it was whispered that he 
wrote scrai)s and put them there.*' All this in the sweet days of 
boyhood — 

•' The shining days when life is new, 
And all is bright as morning dew." 

Youth came, and with it arose higher thoughts, higher aspirations, 
and loftier schemes. At the age of nineteen he wrote his drama 
of ^^ Affuire,*' of which his brother. Dr. Griffin, thousfht so hio-hlv 
that he consented to Gerald's going to London to seek his fortune 
as a dramatic writer. Gerald had early conceived the idea — a some- 
what romantic one — of reforming the modern drama. In the fall of 
1823 — in his twentieth year — the o'ifted and enthusiastic young' 
Irishman entered the capital of England unknown, unfriended, 
scantily provided with means, haying no other weapon or armor to 
light the battle of life, upon which he was about to enter, than a 
facile pen, a good constitution, a well-balanced mind, and indomi- 
table perseverance, and the patient, hopeful spirit of true genius. 
There, in the •* modern Babylon," his life for nearly three weary 
years was a prolonged struggle, first for recognition and then for 
existence itself. It was dreadful up-hill work. He was sternly 
obliged '^ to labor and to wait." Often ^vith an empty stomach, a 
sad heart, and shabby garments he toiled away, the glimmering 
taper of hope cheering him on, and the spirit of a bold and resolute 
independence nerving him in his destitution and distress. 

In July, 1824, he published in the Literary Gazette a poem the 
first stanza of whicli is truly sad and expressive of his London life : 

" My soul is sick and lone 

Xo social ties its love entwine ; 
A heart upon a desert thrown 

Beats not in solitude like mine ; 
For though the pleasant sunlight shine. 

It shows no form that I may own, 
And closed to me is friendship's shrine — 

I am alone — I am alone I '' 



2fS6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

In a letter, written about tlie same date, to his sister in America, 
Griffin sa^'s : ^^ You liave no idea what a heart-breaking hfe that of 
a young scribbler beating about and endeavoring to make his way in 
London is, going into a bookseller's shop, as I haye often done, 
and being obliged to praise up my own manuscript to induce him 
to look at it at all — for there is so much comj^etition that a person 
without a name will not even get a trial — while he puts on his spec- 
tacles and answers your self -commendation with a ^ hum — um.' A 
set of hardened villains ! and yet at no time whatevei- could I have 
been prevailed upon to quit London altogether. That horrid 
word failure— wo ! death first."' This paragraph is the key to 
his difficulties and his lofty feelings. Poor, noble Griffin ! bright 
soul of genius! ^'failure" was the word that yon dreaded most to 
admit into your dictionary of life. 

Li his gifted countryman, Banim, he found a good and generous 
friend. "W'riting in the early part of 1824, he says : ^^ What would 
I have done if I had not found Banim ? I should never be tired of 
talking and thinking of Banim. Mark me ! he is a man — the only 
one I have met since I left Ireland. "We '" walked over Hyde Park 
together on St. Patrick's day, and renewed our home recollections 
by gathering shamrocks and placing them in our hats, even under 
the eye of John Bull." 

"The darkest day will pass away." 

At length. Griffin's occasional sketches in the newspapers and 
periodicals attracted attention. He worked his way above the strr- 
face. In the autumn of 1826 ^'Holland-Tide" appeared. This 
work gained for the author some money, and the applause of the 
critics. It was followed the succeeding year by the " Tales of the 
Munster Festivals," thorough Irish stories, evincing gi*eat powers of 
observation and description. Griffin's abilities as a novelist were 
now recognized by all, and, at last, he had discovered his true voca- 
tion. Abandoning the drama, to which he had hitherto devoted 
much attention, he resolved to bend his energies to prose fiction. 
He returned to Ireland in the spring of 1827, and in the quiet of his 
Irish home continued to give the world his masterpieces. His 
splendid work *' The Collegians" appeared in 1829. ^' The Duke 
of Monmouth," " The Rivals and Tracey's Ambition," ''•' The Inva- 

* Himself and Banim. 



Gerald Griffin, '})^'j 

sion/" ^' The Christian Physiologist," aud others were issued from 
the press from time to time. 

Griffin had now climbed the steep and rugged hill of fame, and 
upon him shone the sun of fortune. Still, his immaculate genius was 
not satisfied ; his heart craved something more. God alone could fill 
it, and to God he resolved to dedicate himself. After mature delibe- 
ration, he became a Christian Brother in 1838. In this new, modest, 
and sublime sphere. Brother Joseph — such was Griffin's name in re- 
ligion — labored with all the earnestness of his deep, ardent nature* 
From the monastery in Cork, he wrote to a friend in London in 
1839 : '^ I was ordered off here from Dublin last June, and have beea 
since enlightening the craniums of the wondering Paddies in this 
quarter, who learn from me with profound amazement and profit that 
0-X spells ox, that the top of a map is the north, and the bottom the 
south, with various other '■ branches ' ; as also that they ought to be 
good boys and do as they are bid, and say their prayers every morning 
and evening, etc. ; and yet it seems curious even to myself that I feel 
a great deal happier in the practice of this daily routine than I did 
while I was roving about your great city absorbed in the modest 
project of rivalling Shakspere and throwing Scott into the shade." 

For two years he led the devoted life of a good religious, of a 
saint, then '^ death softly touched him and he passed away" on the 
12th of June, 1840. Cheered and sanctified by religion, the lofty 
genius and pure, bright soul of Gerald Griffin passed to that better, 
l)rigliter world where all is joy and happiness supreme. In the 
little cemetery of the North Monastery in Cork, the traveller will 
see a simple headstone marked, "Brother Joseph." That is the 
honored grave of Gerald Griffin, saint, poet, dramatist, novelist, 
patriot — in short, one of the very best, greatest, and most gifted 
men ever produced by Ireland. 

The poetry of Gerald Griffin glows with all the fire and feeling of 
joutli. Dearly we love it for its pure beauty, freshness, and origin- 
ality. 

His excellent tragedy of ^'^Gisippus" — written in his twentieth 
year, while shouldering his way through the rough-and-tumble of 
London life — was performed for the first time at Drury Lane in 
1842. Both by the press and public it was received with the utmost 
favor. 

As a writer, Griffin is bold, Irish, faithful, original. In the field of 
fiction he holds the first rank — indeed, it is oar opinion that he is 



^SS The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

tlie greatest of tlie Irish novelists. '"The Collegians'' is his most 
poi^ular, and perhaps his most powerful, work. His works, in ten 
Tolumes, are puhlished by D. & J. Sadlier & Co., Xew York. 

Gerald Griffin was a wonderful compound of the purest feeling 
and the most splendid intellect. His character Avas deep, lofty, 
beautiful, and independent. In ^^erson he Avas dignified and com- 
manding. His brother, who visited him in London in 1826, tells 
us of his ^^ tall figure, exjoressive features, and his profusion of 
dark hair, thrown back from a fine forehead, giving an impression 
of a person remarkably handsome and interesting.'' 

"How long Ave live, not rears but actions tell ; 
That man lives twice who lives the first life well.'* 



SELECTIONS FRO^ GEIFFIX'S WORKS. 

T LOVE MY LOTE IX THE MOKXIXG. 

I LOVE my love in the morning. 

For she like morn is fair ; 
Her blttshing cheek its crimson streak. 

Its clouds her golden hair. 
Her glance its beam, so soft and kind. 

Her tears its dewy showers. 
And her voice the tender, whispering Avind 

That stirs the early bowers. 

I love mv loA'e in the mornins^. 

I loA'e my love at noon ; 
For she is bright as the lord of night,- 

Yet mild as auttimn's moon. 
Her beatity is my bosom's stm, 

Her faith my fostering shade. 
And I will love my darling one 

Till even the stm shall fade. 

I love my love in the morning, 

I love my love at even ; 
Her smile's soft play is like the ray. 

That lisfhts the western lieaven. 



Gerald Griffin. 389 

I loved her when the sun was high, 

I loved her when he rose; 
But best of all when evening's sigh 

Was murmuring at its close. 



MY SPIRIT IS GAY. 

My spirit is gay as the breaking 01 dawn, 
As the breeze that sports over the sunlighted laAvn, 
As the song of yon lark from his kingdom of light. 
Or the harp-string that rings in the chambers at night. 
For the world and its vapors, though darkly they fold, 
I have light that can turn them to purple and gold. 
Till they brighten the landscape they came to deface. 
And deformity changes to beauty and grace. 

Yet say not to selfish delights I must turn. 
From the grief-laden bosoms around me that mourn ; 
For 'tis pleasure to share in each sorrow I see. 
And sweet sympathy's tear is enjoyment to me. 
Oh ! blest is the heart, when misfortunes assail. 
That is armed in content as a garment of mail ; 
For the grief of another that treasures its zeal. 
And remembers no woe but the woe it can heal. 

When the storm gathers dark o'er the summer's young bloom, 

And each ray of the noontide is sheathed in gloom, 

I would be the rainbow, high arching in air, 

Like a gleaming of hope on the brow of despair. 

When the burst of its fury is spent on the bower 

And the buds are yet bow'd with the weight of the shower, 

I would be the beam that comes Avarming and bright. 

And that bids them burst open to fragrance and light. 

I would be the smile that comes breaking serene 
O'er the features where lately affliction has been ; 
Or the heart-speaking scroll after years of alloy 
That brings home to the desolate tidings of joy; 
Or the life-oivino- rose-odor borne bv the breeze 
To the sense risino- keen from the couch of disease. 



390 The Prose and Poetiy of Ireland. 

Or the whisper of charity, tender and kind, 
Or the dawning of hoj^e on the penitent's mind. 

Then breathe ye, sweet roses, your fragrance around, 
And awaken, ye wild-birds, the grove with your sound ; 
When the soul is restrained and the heart is at ease 
There's a rapture in j)loasures so simple as these. 
I rejoice in each sunbeam that gladdens the vale, 
I rejoice in each odor that sweetens the gale. 
In the bloom of the spring, in the summer's gay voice. 
With a spirit as gay I rejoice I I rejoice ! 



OLD miES I OLD TIMES I 

Old times ! old times ! the gay old times ! 

When I was young and free, 
And heard the merry Easter chimes. 

Under the sally tree. 
My Sunday palm beside me placed. 

My cross upon my hand, 
A heart at rest within my breast. 

And sunshine on the land I 

Old times I old times I 

It is not that my fortunes flee, ' 

Xor that my cheek is pale, 
I mourn whene'er I think of thee. 

My darling native vale. 
A wiser head I have, I know. 

Than when I loitered there ; 
But in my wisdom there is woe. 

And in my knowledge care. 
Old times I old times ! 

I've lived to know my share of joy. 

To feel my share of pain. 
To learn that friendship's self can cloy. 

To love, and love in vain. 



Gerald Griffin. 391; 

To feel a pang and wear a smile. 

To tire of other climes. 
To like my own unhappy isle. 

And sing the gay old times I 
Old times I old times I 



And sure the land is nothino; chansfed. 

The birds are singing still. 
The flowers are springing where we ranged. 

There's sunshine on the hill; 
The sallv, wavino' o'er mv head. 

Still sweetly shades my frame ; 
But, ah I those happy days are fled. 

And I am not the same I 

Old times ! old times ! 



Oh I come again, ye merry times. 

Sweet, stmny, fresh, aud calm. 
And let me hear those Easter chimes, 

And wear my Sunday palm. 
If I could cry away mine eyes 

^ly tears would flow in Tain : 
If I could waste my heart in sighs. 

They'll never come aofain ! 

Old times I old times I 



A PLACE I^s" THY :y:E:SIORY, DEAREST. 

A PLACE in thy memory, dearest. 

Is all that I claim. 
To patise and look back when thou hearest 

The sound of my name. 
Another may woo thee, nearer, 

Another may win and wear : 
I care not though he be dearer. 

If I am remembered there. 



392 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland 

Remember me — not as a lover 

Whose hope was cross'd, 
"Whose bosom can never recoyer 

The Hghfc it hath lost: 
As the young bride remembers the mother 

She loves thonsfh she never mav see. 
As a sister remembers a brother, 

O dearest I remember me. 

Could I be thy true lover, dearest, 

Conldst thou but smile on me, 
I would be the fondest and nearest 

That ever loved thee I 
But a cloud on my pathway is glooming 

That never must biu'st upon thine. 
And Heaven, that made thee all bloomins:, 

Xe'er made thee to wither on mine. 

Eemember me, then ; oh I remember 

My calm, light love. 
Though bleak as the l^lasts of Xovember 

My life may prove ; 
That life will, thougli lonely, be sweet. 

If its brightest enjoyment should be 
A smile and kind word when we meet. 

And a place in thy memory. 



YOr HATE XETEE BADE ME HOPE, IIS TRUE. 

You have never bade me hope, 'tis ti*ue, 

I ask you not to swear ; 
But I looked into those eyes of blue 

And read a promise there. 

The vow should bind with maiden sighs 
That maiden's lips have spoken : 

But that which looks from maiden's eyes 
Should last of all be broken I 



Gerald Griffin. 393 



LIKE TJIE OAK BY THE FOU25^TAI2s. 

Like the oak by the fountain 

In sunshine and storm ; 
Like the rock on the mountain, 

Unchanging in form ; 
Like the course of the river. 

Through ages the same ; 
Like tlie mist mounting ever 

To heaven, whence it came. 

So firm be thy merit. 

So changeless tliy soul, 
So constant thy spirit. 

While seasons shall roll. 
The fancy that rano-es 

Ends where it began ; 
But the mind that ne'er changes 

Brino's a'lory to man. 



FARE THEE AVELL, :\LY XATIYE DELL. 

Fare thee well, my native dell I 

Tliouo"h far awav I wander, 
With thee my thoughts shall ever dwell, 

In absence only fonder. 
Farewell, ye banks where once I roved 

To view that lonely river. 
And you, ye groves so long belo^-fed. 

And fields, farewell for ever ! 

Here once my youthful moments flew 

In joy like sunshine splendid. 
The brightest hours that e'er I knew 

With those sweet scenes were blended — 
Wlien o'er those hills at break of morn 

The deer went bounding early. 
And huntsmen woke with hounds aud horn 

The mountain echoes cheerly. 



394 ^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

Fare ye well, ye liappy hours, 

So bright, but long departed I 
Fare ye well, yet fragrant bow'rs. 

So sweet, but now deserted ! 
Farewell, each rock and lonely isle. 

That make the poet's numbers ; 
And tliou, ancient, holy pile ! ^ 

Where mighty Brian slumbers ! 

Farewell, thou old, romantic bridge. 

Where morn has seen me roaming. 
To mark across each shallow ridge 

The mighty Shannon foaming. 
No more I'll press the bending oar 

To speed the painted wherry. 
And glide along the shady wood 

To yiew the bills of Deny. 

There's many an isle in Scariff Bay, 

With many a garden blooming. 
Where oft I've passed the summer day 

Till twilight hours were glooming. 
No more shall evening's yellow glow 

Among those rains find me ; 
Far from these dear scenes I go. 

But leave my heart behind me. 



'tis, it is the shannon's stkeam. 

'Tis, it is the Shannon's stream 

Brightly glancing, brightly glancing. 
See, oh ! see the ruddy beam 

Upon its waters dancing ! 
Thus return from travel vain. 

Years of exile, years of pain. 
To see old Shannon's face again. 

Oh ! the bliss entrancing. 

• The cathedral in which is the monument of the celebrated Brian Boru. 



Gerald Griffin. 395 

Hail, our own majestic stream. 

Flowing eyer, flowing ever. 
Silent in the morning beam, 

Our own beloyed river ! 

Fling thy rocky portals wide. 

Western ocean, western ocean ; 
Bend, ye hills, on either side. 

In solemn, deep devotion ; 
While before the rising gales 

On his heaving surface sails 
Half the wealth of Erin's vales. 

With undulating motion. 
Hail, our own beloved stream. 

Flowing ever, flowing ever. 
Silent in the morning beam. 

Our own majestic river ! 

On thy bosom deep and wide, 

Xoble river, lordly river, 
Eoyal navies safe might ride. 

Green Erin's lovely river I 
Proud upon thy banks to dwell. 

Let me ring ambition's knell. 
Lured by hope's illusive spell. 

Again to wander, never. 
Hail, our own romantic stream, 

Flowinsf ever, flowino- ever. 
Silent in the morning beam, 

Our own majestic river I 

Let me from thy placid course. 

Gentle river, mighty river. 
Draw such truths of silent force 

As sophist uttered never. 
Thus like thee, unchanging still, 

With tranquil breast and ordered will. 
My heaven-appointed course fulfil, 

Undeviatina: ever I 



39^ ^-^^ Prose ajid Poetry of Ireland, 

Hail, our own majestic stream. 
Flowing ever, flowing ever, 

Silent in the morning beam, 
Onr own delightfnl river ! 



THE SISTEE OF CHARITY. 

She onoe was a lady of lionor and wealth. 
Bright glowed on her featnres the roses of health ; 
Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold, 
And her motion shook perfume from every fold ; 
Joy revell'd around her, love shone at her side. 
And gay was her smile as tlie glance of a bride. 
And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall. 
When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul. 

She felt in her spirit the summons of grace, 
That caird her to live for the suffering race. 
And, heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home, 
Eose quickly, like Mary, and answered, '^^ I come." 
She put from her person the trappings of pride 
And passed from her home with the joy of a bride, 
]N'or wept at the threshold, as onward she moved. 
For her h^art was on fire in the cause it approved. 

Lost ever to fashion — to vanity lost, 
Thac beauty that once was the song and the toast ; 
No more in the ball-room that figure we meet. 
But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat. 
Fore'ot in the halls is that his-h-soundina: name. 
For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame ; 
Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth. 
For she barters for heaven the glory of earth. 

Those feet that to music could gracefully move 
ISTow bear her alone on the mission of love ; 
Those hands that once dangled the i^erfume and gem. 
Are tending the helpless, or lifting for them ; 
That voice that once echo'd the songs of the vain 
Xow whispers relief to the bosom of pain ; 



• Gerald Griffin. 397 

And tlie liair that was shining with diamond and pearl 
Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl. 

Her down bed a pallet^, her trinkets a bead. 

Her lustre, one taper that serves her to read, 

Her sculpture, the crucifix nailed by her bed, 

Her paintings, one print of the thorn-crowned head. 

Her cushion, the pavement that wearies her knees. 

Her music the psalm, or the sigh of disease ; 

The delicate lady lived mortified there. 

And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer. 

Yet not to the service of heart and of mind 

Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined ; 

Like Him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief 

She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief. 

She strengthens the weary, she comforts the weak. 

And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick ; 

Where want and affliction on mortals attend, 

The Sister of Charity tliere is a friend. 

Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath, 
Like an angel she moves 'mid the vapor of death ; 
Where rings the loud musket and flashes the sword, 
Ilnfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord. 
How sweetly she bends o'er each j)lagiie-tainted face 
With looks that are lighted with holiest grace ! 
How kindly she dresses each suffering limb, 
For she sees in the wounded the imasfe of Him ! 



Behold her, ye worldly ! behold her, ye vain ! 
Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain ; 
Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days. 
Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise. 
Ye lazy philosophers — self-seeking men — 
Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the jDen, 
How stands in the balance your eloquence weighed. 
With the life and the deeds of that hio-h-born maid? 



;q8 The Prose and Poetry )f Ireland. 

TO THE BLESSED VIRGIN^ MARY. 

As the mute nightinsfalc in closest sroves 

Lies hid at noon, but when day's piercins: eye 
Is lock'd in night, with full heart beating high, 

Poureth her plain song o'er the light she loves. 

So, Virgin, ever pure and ever blest. 

Moon of religion, from whose radiant face, 
Reflected, streams the light of heavenly grace 

On broken hearts, by contrite thoughts oppress' d — 

So, Marv, they who justly feel the weight 
Of Heaven's offended majesty implore 
Thy reconciling aid, with suppliant knee. 

Of sinful man, sinless Advocate ! 

To thee they turn, nor him the less adore; 

'Tis still Ills lisfht they love, less dreadful seen in thee. 



THE CHOICE OF FRIEXDS. 

League not with him in friendship's tie 

Whose selfish soul is bent on pleasure ; 
For he from joy to joy will fly 

As changes fancy's fickle measure. 
Not his the faith whose bond we see 

With lapse of years remaining stronger ; 
Xor will he then be true to thee 

When thou canst serve his aim no lons^er. 



Him, too, avoid whose grov'lling love 

In earthly end alone is centred, 
Within whose heart a thought above 

Life's common cares has seldom entered. 
Trust not to him thy bosom's weal, 

A painted love alone revealing. 
The show, without the lasting zeal, 

Tlie liollow voice, without the feeling. 



Gerald Grijfni. 399 



THE TILLAGE RUIX. 

The lake which washes the orchards of the village of diTides 

it from au abbey now in ruins, bnt associated with the recollection 
of one of those few glorious events which shed a scanty and occa- 
sional lustre on the dark and mournful tide of Irish history. At 
this foundation was educated, a century or two before the English 
conquest, Melcha, the beautiful daughter of O'Melachlin, a prince 
whose character and conduct even yet afford room for speculation 
to the historians- of his country. Xot like the maids of our degene- 
rate days, who are scarce exceeded by the men in their effeminate 
vanity and love of ornament, young Melcha joined to the tenderness 
and beauty of a virgin the austerity and piety of a hermit. The 
simplest roots that fed the lowest of her father's subjects were the 
accustomed food of Melcha ; a couch of heath refreshed her deli- 
cate limbs, and the lark did not rise earlier at morn to sing the 
praises of his Maker than did the daughter of O'Melachlin. 

One subject had a large proportion of her thoughts, her tears, and 
prayers — the misery of her afflicted country ; for she had not fallen 
on happy days for Ireland. Some years before her birth a swarm 
of savages from the North of Europe had landed on the eastern 
coast of the island, and, in despite of the gallant resistance of lier 
father (who then possessed the crown) and of the other chiefs, suc- 
ceeded in establishing their power throughout the couLtry. Thor- 
gills, the barbarian chief who had led them on, assumed the sove- 
reignty of the conquered isle, leaving, however, to O'Melachlin the 
name and insignia of royalty, while all the power of government 
was centred in himself. The history of tp-anny scarcely furnishes 
a more appalling picture of devastation and oppressive cruelty than 
that which followed the success of this invasion. Monasteries were 
destroyed, monks slaughtered in the shelter of their cloisters, cities 
laid waste and burnt, learning almost exterminated, and religion 
persecuted with a virulence ^leculiar to the gloomy and superstitious 
character of the oppressors. Historians present a minute aud affect- 
ing detail of the enormities which were perpetrated in the shape of 
taxation, restriction, and direct aggression. The single word 
tyranny, liowever, may convey an idea of the whole. 

Astonished at these terrible events, O'Melachlin, thous'h once a 
vigilant general, seemed struck with some base palsy of the soul 
that rendered him insensible to the groans and tortures of his sub- 



400 TJic Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

jects, or to the barbarous cruelty of the monster who was nominally 
leagued with him in power. Apparently content with the shadow 
of dominion left him, and with the security afforded to those of his 
own household, he slept upon his duties as a king and as a man, 
and thirty years of misery rolled by without his striking a blow, or 
even, to all appearance, forming a wish for the dehverance of his 
afflicted country. It was not till he was menaced with the danger 
of sharing the afflictions of his people that he endeavored to re- 
moTe it. 

Such apathy it was which pressed u2)on the mind of Melcha, and 
filled her heart with shame and with affliction. A weak and help- 
less maid, she had, however, nothing but her prayers to bestow u^^on 
her country ; nor were those bestowed in vain. At the age of fifteen, 
rich in virtue as in beauty and in talent, she was recalled from those 
cloisters whose shadows still are seen at even-fall reflected in the wa- 
ters of the lake, to grace the phantom court of her degenerated father. 
The latter, proud of his child, gave a splendid feast in honor of her 
return, to which he was not ashamed to invite the oppressor of his 
subjects and the usurper of his own authority. The coarser vices 
are the usual concomitants of cruelty. Thorgills beheld the saintly 
daughter of his host with other eyes than those of admiration. Ac- 
customed to mould the wishes of the j^uppet-monarch to his own, 
lie tarried not even the conclusion of the feast, but, desiring the 
company of O'Melachlin on the green without the palace, he there 
disclosed to him, with the bluntness of a barbarian and the insolence 
of a conqueror, his infamous wishes. 

Struck to the soul at what he heard, O'Melachlin was deprived 
of the jDower of rej^ly or utterance. For the first time since he had 
resigned to the invader the jjower which had fallen so heavy on the 
land, his feelings wese awakened to a sense of sympathy, and self-in- 
terest made him pitiful. The cries of bereaved parents, to which 
till now his heart had been impenetrable as a wall of brass, found 
sudden entrance to its inmost folds, and a responsive echo amid its 
tenderest strings. He sat for a time upon a bench close by. ^vith 
his forehead resting on his hand, and a torrent of temi^estuous feel- 
ings rushing through his bosom. 

"^^ TVhat sayest thou?" asked the tyrant, after a long silence. 
" Shall I have my wish ? Xo answer 1 Hearest thou, slave ? 
What insolence keeps thee silent ? " 

*• I pray you jiardon me," replied the monarch : '•'I was thinking 



Gerald Griffiii. 401 

then of a sore annoyance that has lately bred about our castle. I 
mean that rookery yonder, the din of which even now confounds 
the music of our feast, and invades with its untimely harshness our 
cheerina: and most sinsnilar discourse. I wottld I had some mode of 
banishing that pest. I would I liad some mode — I would I had." 

•'• Ho I was that all the subject of tliy thotight ? "' said Thorgills. 
•• AYhv. fool, thou iiever wilt be rid of tliem till thou hast burned 
the nests wherein they breed.*' 

^•'I thank thee,*' answered the insulted parent; " I'll take thy 
coimsel. I'll burn the nests. Will you walk into the house ? " 

'^What, first, of my request ?" said Tliorgills : '^tell me that." 

'•If thou hadst asked me/" replied the king, i' a favorite hobby 
for the chase, or a hound to guard thy threshold, thou wouldst not 
think it much to grant a week at least for iireparing my heart to 
part with what it loved. How much more when thy demand 
reaches to the child of my heart, the only offspring of a mother who 
died before she had beheld her offspring ? *' 

••'A week, then, let it be,'' said Thorgills, looking with contempt 
upon the starting tears of the applicant. 

** A week would scarce suffice," rephed the monarch, ** to teach 
my tongue in what language it should communicate a destiny like 
this to Melcha." 

'•'TTliat time wouldst thou require, then?" cried the tyrant 
hastily. 

•'* Thou seest,'' replied the king, pointing to the new moon, which 
showed its slender crescent above the wood-crowned hills that 
bounded in the prospect. •'•' Before that thread of light that 
ghmmers now upon the distant lake, like chastity on beauty, has 
fulfilled its changes thou shalt receive my answer to this proffer." 

••Be it so,'' said Thorofills, and the conversation ended. 

When the guests had all departed, the ^Tetched monarch went into 
his oratory, where he bade one of his followers to order Melcha to 
attend him. She found him utterly dej^ressed, and almost incapa- 
ble of form i no- a desio^n. Havina: commanded the attendants to 
withdraw, he endeavored, but in vain, to make known to the 
astonished ^irincess the demand of the usuiqier. He remembered 
her departed mother, and he thought of her own sanctity, and, 
more than all, he remembered his helpless condition, and the seem- 
ing impossibility of doing anything within the time to remove from 
his own doors the miserv which had alreadv befallen so manv of his 



402 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

subjects without meeting any active sympathy from him. Was this 
the form which he was to resign into a ruffian's hands ? Was it for 
such an end he had instilled into her delicate mind the principles 
of early virtue and Christian piety ? By degrees, as he contem- 
plated his situation, his mind was roused by the very nature of the 
exi2:encv to devise the means of its removal. He communicated 
botli to Melcha, and was not disapjoointed in her firmness. With a 
zeal beyond her sex, she prepared to take a part in the desperate 
counsels of her father and the still more desperate means by which 
he proposed to put them into execution. Assembling the officers 
of his court, he made known to all, in the presence of his daughter, 
the flagrant insult- which had been offered to their sovereign, and 
obtained the ready pledge of all to peril their existence in the 
futherance of his wishes. He unfolded in their sight the green 
banner of their country, which had now for more than thirty years 
lain hid amongst the wrecks of their departed freedom, and, while 
tlie niemor}' of former glories shone warmly on their minds through 
the gloom of recent shame and recent injuries, the monarch easily 
directed their enthusiasm!, to the point where he would have it fall — 
the tyranny of Thorgills and his countrymen. 

On the following da}^ the latter departed for the capital, where he 
was to aAvait the determination of his colleague. Accustomed to hold 
in contem^^t the imbecility of the conquered king, and hard himself 
at heart, he knew not what prodigious actions may take their rise 
from the impulse of paternal love. That rapid month was fruitful 
in exertion. Couriers were desj)atched f rom the palace of OOIelach- 
lin to many of those princes whose suggestions of the deliverance of 
the isle lie had long since received with apathy or disregard. 
Plans were arranged, troops organized, and a general system of in- 
tellio'cnce established throuo-hout the island. It is easv to unite the 
oppressed against the sovereign, so suddenly his scheme was spread 
throughout the country. The moon rolled by, and by its latest 
glimmer a messenger was desjiatched to the capital to meet at what- 
ever place he should appoint. 

There was an island on the lake in Meath, in which Thorgills had 
erected a lordlv palace, surrounded by the richest woods, and af- 
fording a delicious prospect of the lake and the surrounding 
country. Hither the luxurious monarch directed that the daughter 
of O'Melachlin should be sent, together with her train of fifteen 
noble maidens of the court of O'Melachlin. The address of the 



Gerald Griffin, 403 

latter in seeming to accede to tlie wishes of tlie tyrant is preserved 
iimongst the annals of the isle. It requested him to consider 
whether he might not find elsewhere some object more deserving of 
his favor than ^* that brown girl,'' and besought him to remember 
^^ whose father's child she was." 

Far from being touched by this appeal, the usurper, on the ap- 
pointed day, selected in the capital fifteen of the most dissolute and 
brutal of his followers, with whom he arrived at evening at the 
rendezvous. It was a portentous night for Ireland. Even to the 
■eyes of the tyrant and his gang, half blinded as they were to all 
but their own hideous thoughts, there appeared something gloomy 
imd foreboding in the stillness of nature, and seemed even to per- 
vade the manners of the people. The villages were silent as they 
passed, and there appeared in the greeting of the few they met 
upon the route an air of deep-seated and almost menacing intelli- 
gence. 

Meantime, with feelings widely different and an anxiety that even 
the greatness of the enterprise and the awakened spirit of heroism 
■could not wholly subdue, O'Melachlin prepared himself for the 
painful task of bidding farewell to his beloved daughter. Melcha, 
already aware of his design, awaited with the deepest anxiety, yet 
mingled with a thrilling hope, the approach of the auspicious mo- 
ment that was to crown her ardent and long-cherished wishes or to 
dash them to the earth forever. Alone in her royal father's 
oratory, she lay prostrate before the marble altar, and Avet with 
floods of tears the solid j^avement at its base. She prayed, not 
like a fanatic or worldling, but like one who understood with a 
feeling mind the real miseries of her country, and knew that she 
iiddressed a power capable of removing them. The step of her father 
at the porch of the oratory aroused the jpi'incess from hei; attitude 
of devotion. She stood up hastily upon her feet, like one prepared 
for enterprise, and waited the speech of O'Melachlin. He came to 
inform her that all was ready for her d.ej)arture, and conducted her 
into an adjoining chamber, that he might bid her farewell. The 
father and daughter embraced in silence and with tears. 

Believing from the error of the light that she looked pale as she 
stood before him, he took her hand and pressed it in an encourag- 
ing manner. 

"Follow me," he said, "my child, and thou shalt see how little 
•cause thou hast to fear the power of this I^orwegian Holofernes." 



404 'The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

The king conducted lier into another room, wliere stood fifteen 
young maidens, as it seemed, and richly attired. 

" Thou seest these virgins, Melcha/' said the monarch. ** Their 
years are like thine own, but under every cloak is a warrior's sword, 
and they do not want a warrior's hand to wield it, for all that is 
woman of them is their dress. Dost thou think," ho added ten- 
derly, '^that thou hast firmness for such a task as this?" 

'•'I have no fear," replied his daughter. '''He who put strength 
into the arm of Judith can s^ive courao-e to the heart of Melcha." 

They departed from the palace, where the anxious father re- 
mained a little loDo^er, until the fast advancino^ shades of nio-ht 
should enable him to put the first steps of his design into effect. As 
soon as the earliest stars began to glimmer on the woods of Meath, 
he took from its recess the banner which so Ions; had rested idle and 
ino-lorious in his hall, and the brazen sword which was once the 
constant companion of his early successes and defeats, but which 
now had not left its sheath since he received a visionary crown from 
Thorgills. Girding the weapon to his side, he drew the blade with 
tears of shame and sorrow, imprinted a kiss upon the tempered 
metal, and hastened with reviWng hope and energy to seek the 
troops who awaited him in the adjoining wood. Mounting in 
haste, they hurried along through forests and defiles which were in 
many places thronged with silent multitudes, armed, and waiting 
but the signal-word to rush to action. They halted near the bor- 
ders of the lake of Thorgills, where a number of currachs, or 
basket-boats, were moored under shelter of the wood. After hold- 
ing a council of war, and allotting to the several princes engaged 
their part in the approaching enterprise, O'Melachlin remained on 
the shore casting from time to time an anxious eye to the usurper's 
isle, and awaiting the expected signal of his daughter. 

Tlie princess in the meantime pursued the hazardous journey to 
the abode of Thorgills. The sun had already set before they reached 
the shores of the lake which surrounded the castle of the tyrant, and 
the silver bow of the expiring moon was glimmering in its 23urc and 
tranquil waters. A barge, allotted by Thorgills for the purpose, was 
sent to convey them to the island, and they were welcomed with soft 
music at the entrance of the j)alace. The j^lace was lonely, the 
guards were few, and the blind security of the monarch was only 
equalled by his weakness. Besides, the revel sj)irit had descended 
from the cliieftain to his train, and most even of those who were 



Gerald G7'iflin. 405 

in arms had incai:>acitated themselves for usmg them with any 
energy. ^lelcha and her train were conducted hy a half-intoxicated 
slave to an extensive hall, where they were commanded to await the 
orders of the conqueror. The guide disappeared, and the princess 
prepared for the issue. In a little time the liaugings at one side of 
the apartment were di'awn back, and the usurper, accompanied by 
his ruffian band, made his appearance, hot with the fumes of in- 
toxication, and staggering from the late debauch. The entrance of 
Thorgills was the signal for Melcha to prepare her par:. All re- 
mained still while Thorgills j^assed fi'om one to another of the silent 
hand of maidens, and paused at length before the •'brown girl '* for 
whom O'lEelachlin had besought his pity. A thi-iil of terror shot 
through the heart of Melcha as she beheld the hand of the wretch 
about to grasp her arm. 

•'•'Down with the tyrant V' she exclaimed, in a voice that rung 
like :i bugle-call. "Upon him, warriors, in the name of Erin I 
Bind him, but slay him not." 

TVith a wild '•' Farrali ! "' that shook the roof and walls of the 
-abhoiTcd dwelling, the youths obeyed the summons of the heroine. 
The tornado bursts not sooner from the bosom of Eastern calm 
than did the band of warriors from their delicate disguise at the 
sound of those beloved accents. 

Their swords for an instant gleamed unstained on high, but when 
they next rose into the air they smoked with the streaming gore of 
the oppressors. Sn'uck powerless by the charge, the tp*ant and his 
dissolute crew were disabled before they had even time to draw a 
sword. 

Thorsfills was seized ahve and botmd with their scarfs and bands, 
while the rest were hewed to pieces without pity on the spot. "While 
this was done, the heroic Melcha seized a torch which burned in the 
apartment, nished swiftly from tlie j^alace. The affrighted guards, 
beheving it to be some a]Di)arition, gave way as she approached, and 
suffered her to reach the borders of the lake, where she waved the 
hrand on hio:h, foro^ettinof in the zeal of libertv her feminine cha- 
racter, and more resembling one of their own war goddesses than 
the peaceful Christian maiden whose j)rayers and tears till now had 
been her only weapons. Like a train to which a spark has been 
applied, a chain of beacon-fires sj^rang up from hill to hill of the 
surrounding country, amid the shouts of thousands gasping for 
breath — for the breath of freedom, and hailius: that feeble licrht as 



4o6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

its rising star. The boats of O'Melachlin, shooting like arrows from 
the surrounding shores, darkened the surface of the lake, and the- 
foremost reached the isle before the guards of the tp'ant, stu23ified 
by wine aud fear, had yet recovered courage to resist. They were an 
easy prey to O'Melachlin and his followers; nor was the enterprise 
thus ausiDiciously commenced permitted to grow cold until the 
power of the invaders was destroyed throughout the isle, and Melcha 
had the happiness to see peace and liberty restored to her afflicted 
country. 

In the .waters of that lake which so often had borne the usurper 
to the lonely scene of his debaucheries he was consigned, amidst 
the acclamations of a liberated people, to a nameless sepulchre, and 
the power he had abused once more reverted to its rightful owner. 

In one thing only did the too confiding islanders neglect to profit 
by the advice of Thorgills himself. Tliey did not hum the nests. 
They suffered the strangers still to possess the seaport to^Tis and 
other important holds throughout the isle, an imprudence, how- 
ever, the effect of which did not appear till the reign of O'Melnchlin 
was ended by his death. 

The reader may desire to know what became of the beautiful and 
heroic princess who had so considerable a share in the restoration of 
lier country's freedom. As this had been the only earthly object of 
her wishes, even fi-om childhood, with its accomplishment was end- 
ed all she desired on earth. Rejecting the crowds of noble and 
wealthy suitors who ardently sought her hand, and preferring the 
solitude of her own heart to the splendors and alliu*ements of a 
court, she besought her father, as a recompense for her ready 
compliance with his wishes, that he would allow her once more to 
retire into the convent where she had received her education, to con- 
sume her days in exercises of piety and virtue. Pained at her choice, 
the king, however, did not seek to thwart it : and after playing- 
her biief but brilhant jDart upon the theatre of the world, she de- 
voted in those holy shades her virgin love and the residue of her 
days to heaven. 

Such are the recollections that hallow the Tillage ruin and dig- 
nify its vicinity with the majesty of historical association. The 
peasantry choose the grave of the royal nun as the scene of their 
devotions ; and even those who look with contempt ui^on their 
humble piety, and regard as superstition the religion of their buried 
piincess, feel the genial cuiTent gush within their bosoms as they 



Gerald Griffin. 407 

pass the spot at evening, and think upon her singleness of heart and 
her devoted zeal. Long may it be before feelings such as these shall 
be extinguished. 



GRIFFIN'S LETTERS. 
LETTER TO HIS SISTER. 

Loiq^DOis^, Xov. 22, 1823. 

My Dearest Ellex: I have but a small place ^ left for you, so 
I must confine myself. William does not mention whether you 
wrote to or heard from America since I left L-eland. When you 
write, tell Mary Ann ^ that while her affectionate remembrance of 
me in her last letter gave me pleasure, I felt no small degree of pain 
at the air of doubt with which she requested that ^'^ the muses should 
not supersede her in my affections. " I was hurt by it at the time, 
and have not since forgot it. Tell her that, long as we have been 
acquainted, she yet knows little of me if she thought the charge 
necessary. 

Since I came here I have discovered that home is more necessary 
to my content than I previously imagined. The novelty of change 
is beginning to Avear off, and even amid the bustle of this great city 
I think of you already with a feeling of loneliness, which rather in- 
creases than lessens by time. I do not expect you to write to me, 
as I know it distresses you ; but you can remember me now and then, 
and make William, or whoever writes, be particular in the account 
of your health. Never give up hope. It is the sweetest cordial with 
which Heaven qualifies the cup of calamity, next to that which you 
never lose sight of— religion. 

Dearest Ellen, remember me affectionately to all, and believe me. 

Yours ever, 

GtErald Grifpik", 



to his brother. 

LoKDOK, June 18, 1825. 
My Dear William : I do not intend to send this until I have 
more to tell you than I can do at present. Your letter was a great 
j)rize. I wish you could send me what you intend. I know not 

'' This follows, on the same sheet, a letter to his brother, Dr. William Griffin. 
^ Another of his sisters ; she afterwards became a Sister of Charity. 



4o8 The Prose and Poehy of Ii-eland. 

how to turn it to account until I see it all ; but I apprehend the 
idea of a journal is not good, for mine must be all tales, short and 
attractive in their appearance. • 

I called the other day on a celebrated American scribbler, Mr. 

X . He is a pleasant fellow, and we had some chat. He has been 

filling half Blaclcwood since he came witli American topics, and is 
about novelizing here, -ds 1 i^erceive by the advertisement of "Brother 
Jonathan.'* His cool egotism is amusing. ** Tragedy, 'Sir. Griffin," 
says he to me, •'•'is your passion, I presume ? I wrote one myself 
the other day, and sent it in to the players : they returned it with- 
out any answer, which was wise on their part. I was sony for it, 
however, for I thought it was such a thing as would do them a good 
deal of credit, and me too." He is, I believe, a lawyer. You under- 
stand my reason for mentioning this precisely in that place. He is, 
I think, clever. 

Have you seen Banim's *• O'Hara Tales " ? If not, read them, 
and say what you think of them. I think them most vigorous and 
original things, ovei'flowing with the spirit of poetry, passion, and 

painting. If you think otherwise, don't say so. My fi^iend W 

sends me word that they are well icriften. All our critics here say 
they are twZ/;* iVff^Zj/ wi'itten ; that nothing since Scott's first novels 

has equalled them. I differ entirely with W in his idea of the 

fidelity of their delineations. He says they argue unacquintance 
with the country. I think they are astonishing in nothing so much 
as in the jDOwer of creating an intense interest without stepping out 
of real life, and in the veiy easy and natural drama that is carried 
through them, as well as in the excellent tact he shows in seizing 
on all the points of national character which are capable of effect. 
!Mind. I don't speak of ••The Fetches "now. That is romance. 
But is it not a splendid one ? 

Xobody knew anything of Banim till he published his *'*'0'Hani 
Tales," which are becoming more and more populai* eveiy day. I 
have seen jnctures taken from them ah*eady by first-i-ate artists, and 
engravings in the windows. Tales, in fact, are the only things the 
pubhc look for. Miss Kelly has been trying to pull Cougreve above 
water, and has been holding him by the nose for the last month, 
but it won't do ; he must down. ^\'hen I came to London the 
playgoers were spectacle mad, then horse mad, then devil mad, now 
they are monkey mad, and the Lord knows, my dear Wilham, when 
they will be G. G. mad. I wish I could get ^* a vacancy at 'em," 



Gerald Grijfin. 409 

Ini gore. Every day shows me more and more of the hmnbug of 
Uterature. It is laughable and sickening. TThat cniions ideas I 
had of &me. etc. before I left Ireland ! . . . 
Dear William, affectionately yonrs, 

Gerald Gbiffix. 



TO HIS SXSTEB- 

DuBLix, April 13, 1829. 

Mt Deab Lucy : I am. m.06t ready to admit your last letter as an 
aoqbittance for all old debts, and likewise to snoscribe with the 
greatest hnmility to the justice of yonr criticism. How happy it 
would be for the world if all the reTiewers had your iaste and dis- 
cernment ! They would know what was good when they got it, 
and they would buy the "Coll^iaiis'' in cart-loads. 

If you are not content with your way of spending the Lent, I 
don't know what you would say to my dancing quadrOles on Mon- 
•lay evening at a party in Baggot Street. The family is a most 
agreeable one, living in very elegant style, and the most friendly 

and unaffected that you can imagine. I here met 3J!is5 . ::.e 

sister of the hero you might have heard me speak of, whom I 
iOiew in London. She is a most charming girl indeed. FH 
:ell you how I might give you some idea of her : if Ely (f Cmuwr 
liad been a gentlewoman, she would have been Just such a one, I 

Think, as Miss . Isn't this very modest talking of my heroine ? 

I have a great mind to put her into my nest book, and if I do. I.. 
kill her as sure as a gun, for it would be such delightful play. I 
exult in the destruction of amiable people, particularly in the 
slaughter of handsome young ladies, for it makes one's third volume 
^ interesting. I have even a hankering wish to make a random 
lilow at yourself, and I think IH do it some day or other ; so look 
TO yourself and insure your life, I advise you, for I think, if well 
managed, you would make a very pretty catastrophe. But, until I 
:ttnd occasion for killing you, let my dear Lucy continue to love her 
affectionate brother. Gkrjlld Gfiimx. 



TO HIS BBOTHEB. 



LoxDOX, July 31, 1826. 
Mt Dz-l7 :ii:. :: I have just got your letter, and write to 
.•?ay that there :s i^T t r.it no chance of my being out of town any 



41 o The Pj'osc and Poetry of Ireland, 

time before winter. I bave been as bard at work, and to as little 
pnrpose as nstial, since I wrote last. The Xews of Literature is 
dead and btiried, leaving me unpaid to some amount — enongb to be 
disagreeable. I am sorry to perceive you write in unpleasant spirits ; 
tliese tbinsrs I bave forsfot a lonsr time now, for I bave been so 
seasoned by i^artial success and great disappointment tbat I am 
become quite indifferent about eitber, tbougb I am still pulling on 
from babit. 

My friend Llanos goes to France next week, wbicb I regret as 
deeply as it is j)ossible for me to say. As to success, or disappoint- 
ment, or uncertainty, or apijrebension. tbey are all nonsense. Tbe 
only plan is to ]>ersuade yourself tbat you will get on gloriously, and 
tbat's tbe best success oroinsr. 

I liave, within tbe last year, seen and talked witb some of tbe most 
successful geniuses of tbe day, and I perceive those who possess bril- 
liant reputations to l3e conceited, impertinent, affected fools, ** out of 
their inspiration," and all others are just about as happy and as 
miserable as the rest of tbe world whom nobody knows or cares 
about. I don't care to know whether you are aware of the low ebb 
at which literature is at present. That accounts for my obscurity, 
of course. I write this at such a Xew Market rate to overtake the 
post tbat I scarcely know what I bave said, but it is not of much 
consequence, as we shall have the happiness of meeting so soon. I 
stick bv honest Cab's motto : '* Hans: sorrow : care'U kill a cat ; 
up tails all, and a rouse for the bangman. " 

Dear William, yours affectionately, 

Geeald Geiffix. 



LETTER TO .TOHZS' IIAXIM. 

Pallas Kexey, October, 18-36. 
My dear BAxm : It is with no little gratification I find myself 
"writing to you once more as of old, to ask you how you are, and all 
who are about you. I have often thought since I left Windgap that 
it must have been an ease to you to get rid of me, you kept such 
continual driving about while I was with you; besides, the ex- 
haustion of tbe evenings, wbicb, I fear,-must have been too much 
for you in your present state of health. To enable me to pass my 
time pleasantly, I am afraid you made it more unpleasant to your- 



Gerald Griffin. 411 

self than I ouglit to have permitted ; but I am a great hand at see- 
ing what I ought to have done when the occasion is past. 

And, now, in the first place, I will ask yon, How liaA'e you been 
since ? And have you yet had relief from those terrible pains and 
siukinsfs from which you used to suffer so much and so continually 
while I was with you ? I believe you would think well of Munster 
folks if you knew how kind and general hare been their enquiries 
respecting you since your return. How fervently do I wish that 
time and home and ^^atience may bring about in you the same happy 
change which they have often done in other invalids, and enable you 
again to take, and long to hold, your rightful place at the head of our 
national literature. This sounds mighty like a fine sj^ecch, but let 
it pass. Would it be unreasonable to ask you to send me that song 
— your song — when you can conveniently do so. I would also wish 
to have that beautiful little ^loem you read to me one evening — the 
lines ^*' On a Churchyard " ; some of them have been haunting me 
ever since I heard you read them. 

It is time for me to say something of the other members of your 
family, and to make enquiries for Mrs. Banim, and for your sweet 
little daughter. It is a great blessing that Mrs. Banim's health has 
held out so well under the severe trials and fatigues to which it has 
been so long subjected, and most sincerely do I hope that her de- 
Totedness and patience may ere long meet some reward in seeing 
you restored to at least a portion of the health you once enjoyed. I 
would be most ungrateful — indeed, very ungrateful — if I could ever 
forget the attention I received both from her and you in London 
when friends were less than few. 

In your present state it must be a great source of satisfaction to 
have your sweet little Mary near friends who feel for her the interest 
which only, or almost only, relatives can feel. Farewell, my dear 
friend. God bless you and all you feel an interest in. This is mv 
sincere and fervent prayer. Eemember me to your father and 
brother, also to your sister. Hoping that you will find my ^' shalls '' 
and ^^ wills," ^'shoulds" and ^'woulds,'* ^' weres " and "have 
beens " in the foregoing orthodox, and hoping far more ardentlv 
that they may find you in better health and hope than when I left 
you, I remain, my dear Banim, your sincere friend, 

GrERALD G KIT- FIX. 



JOHX BANIM. 

*• Ireland was the theme most upon his lips, and the love of eoimtry glowed in 
his bosom ever and always." 

" I should never be tired of talking about and thinking of Banim. Mark me ! 
he is a man — the only one I have met since I left Ireland." — Gerald G-EiFFDf. 

JOHX BAXIM. •• a bright-heartecL true-sonled Irishman," was 
born in the city of Kilkenny on tlie 3d of April, IT 98. His 
father, Michael Banim, was a respectable shop-keep)er and farmer, 
who dealt "in everything from a fowling-piece of John Eigby's to 
one of Martin Kelly's fishing-rods, and kept a pair of well-bred 
horses.'' He was a good Cathohc, and by all who knew him was re- 
spected for his worth and intelligence. AVe are told that John's 
mother, Joannah CaiToll, ^'possessed a mind of yery superior order, 
and a store of good sense and womanly, wifely patience ; and these, 
with health and trust in Heaven, were her only marriage-poition. '" 

John was a precocious boy, exhibiting marks of genius at an early 
age. He loved to study in his own way. His greatest pleasure 
was to steal from school, and, lying under a hedge or beneath the 
shelter of a haycock, to pore over some 23rized volume of ••romance 
or fairy tale."' At six he resolved to write a stoiy. The table was 
too high for the young norvelist, so he placed his joaper on the bed- 
room floor, anc> there scribbled away. It took him three months 
to fiuisli it. He even wished to get it printed. Xor did he end 
with this fairy story. 

••'We have seen,'' says his elegant, and careful biogi'apher, ''a 
romance in two thick manuscript volumes, wriiten in his tenth 
year, and have looked through several manuscript poems, particu- 
larly one extending to over a thousand lines, entitled ' Hibeniia,' 
written about the same period.'' Thus the lad was a poet and 
novelist, with bold, original, and independent views, even before he 
made his first Communion I 

After a good preliminary training, young Banim, in his thir- 
teenth year, was sent to Kilkenny College. There lie pursued his 

1 Patrick Joseph Murray. • The Life of John Banim.'' - Ibid. 

412 



yoJui Banivi. 413 

studies for nearly three years : but, having develoiDed a very remark- 
able talent for di-awing and painting, lie selected the profession of 
artist, aud, in 1813, was sent to Dublin, where he entered the draw- 
ing academy of the Royal Society as a pupil. For two years more 
drawing occupied his earnest attention. He returned to his native 
city, and began life as an artist and teacher of drawing. At this 
time John ** was just eighteen years of age, about the middle height, 
and of good figure. His face was oval, and, thotigh not handsome. 
his broad, high forehead and his dark-hued eyes, teeming with life 
and spirit, saved him from the designation — ugly." ' 

At one of the schools which he attended, as the teacher of draw- 
ing, was a young lady, a boarder in the establishment and a pupil 
of Banim's. She was a bright-eyed, pure-souled, artless giii of 
seventeeu. Banim, full of romance and overflowing with affection, 
unconsciously fell in love with his pupil, and she, as might have 
been expected, returned his ardent love. Her father — a blunt, rude- 
tempered old man — not only refused Banim's j^i'oposal for his 
daughter's hand, but insulted the high-spirited young fellow, and 
secretly removed the girl to a distant part of the country. Six 
unhappy months passed, when the artist learned that his lady- 
love was dead — of a broken heart. The shock aroused him from 
his letharory, and thousfh in the midst of winter, he started on 
foot to walk twenty-five weary Iiish miles to gaze once more on the 
placid feattu'es of his intended bride. He arrived at his destination, 
sadly followed her hearse to the churchyard, **and when all had 
departed, cast himself upon the fi'esh green mound that marked tbe 
grave of his first love.'' Poor Banim ! Sick at heart, with an 
empty stomach and a trembling frame, he turned his steps home- 
wards. TThere he passed the night that followed, he could never 
remember. Xext morning he was met by his brother, leaning upon 
whose arm he came home. He lay down on his sick-bed, and for 
twelve months he merely existed. The mental excitement he had 
undergone and the exposure endured on his journey culminated in 
a chronic disease of the spine, from which he never entirely re- 
covered. 

On regaiuing his health, Banim soon abandoned the jirofession of 
an artist. He first became a contributor to a local i:)aper, the 
Leinster Gazette, and then editor of the same. Early in 1820 he 
left his fathers house for Dublin, and from this period we may date 

^ •• Life of Banim."' 



414 ^-^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

his life as a literary man. His letters reveal his many difficulties — 
his early struggles for recognition, and his occasionally '"^ whistling 
for want of a dinner." But Banirn was bold, manly, the very soul 
of resolution ; literature counts no name more heroic, and perse- 
vering, and indej)endent. He turned his attention to the drama, 
and on the 2Sth of May, 1821, his '* Damon and Pythias," an his- 
torical play of great excellence, was produced at Oovent G-arden 
Theatre, the author being only in his twenty-fourth year. Macready 
and Charles Kemble took the j)rincipal parts. 

In conjunction with his brother Michael * he laid the foundation 
of the celebrated •'• Tales of the O'Hara Family '• — John to be known 
by the nom de plume of Abel O'Hara, and Michael by that of 
Barnes O'Hara. Each was to wi'ite as much as possible, and submit 
his MS. to the other for criticism. At that time Michael was in 
business with his father, and could only devote his occasional leisure 
moments to composition, Avhile his more gifted brother proposed to 
go to London and devote himself wholly to literature. 

Banim was an earnest Catholic, and an ardent and patriotic 
Irishman, and at this period Ireland had long grown sick and weary 
of resting under the iron heels of religious degradation and j^oliti- 
cal despotism. The Irishman was then placed in print only to be 
jeered and mocked at. Banim saw this. . He determined to do 
something for himself and the good name of his country. He re- 
solved to do for Ireland what Sir A^'alter Scott had done for Scot- 
land. In short, he longed to become the novelist of his dear native 
isle. 

In 1822, he married Miss Ellen Euth, the pretty daughter of a 
•'• gentleman-farmer*' of his native county. Less than a month 
after his marriage, he set out with his young wife for London, really 
to seek their fortune. He had little money, but he possessed that 
wonderful courage which ever dwells in the strong, deep heart of 
genius. He soon made friends. He wrote for the periodicals. He 
Avas ever ^'up and doing.'' In April, 1825, the first volume of 
'•The Tales of the O'Hara Family'' aj)peared. This brought him 
fame and money. '' The Boyne Water" was issued early in 1826. 
The following year he produced '' Sylla," a tragedy. '^ The Croppy," 

* Michael Banim, John's elder brother and literary partner, was born in 1796, The 
Banim family consisted of Michael, John, and Joannah. Michael Banim. towards the 
end of his life, held the position of Postmaster of Kilkenny, and died only a few years 
ago. 



yohn Bamm. 415 

'* The Anglo-Irish,-*' ''The Ghost-Hunter,** "The Denounced/'' 
^' The Smuggler," ** The Mayor of Windgap,'* and, finally/* Father 
Connell '* were issued in rapid succession from this time until ISiO, 
when the literary labors of the brothers entirely ceased. 

The sorrow which shaded John Banim's YOtino- davs rested on his 
last years. In 1830 occurred the death of his mother, whom he 
loved with all the intensity of his 23oetic nature. It was a sad blow. 
But death was quickly stealing even after himself. In January, 
1832, he wrote to his brother : • '/My dear Michael : My legs are quite 
gone, and I suffer agony in the extreme, yet I try to work for all 
that." Cholera attacked him the same year. His weak and shat- 
tered body never recovered, and the gifted and high-sotiled Banim 
was a confirmed cripple for the brief remainder of his life. 

In 1835 he returned to his birthplace to <lie. The next year a 
pension of seven hundred and fifty dollars a year was bestowed on 
him by the G-overnment. This lightened his anxieties for the future, 
but did not serve to prolong his bright and useful life. In his little 
cottage of Windgap, surrounded by all the delicate attentions that 
liis devoted wife and affectionate relatives could bestow, he breathed 
bis last in the summer of 1842. 

"Have you seen Banim's ' O'Hara Tales * ?*' writes Gerald Griffin 
to his brother. ''If not, read them, and say what you think of 
them. I think them most vigorous and original things, overflowing 
with the very spirit of poesy, passion, and painting. All our critics 
here sav thev are admirablv written ; that nothino- since Scott's first 
novels has equalled them. I think they are astonishing in that 
power of creating an intense interest without stepping out of real 
life, and in the very easy and natural drama that is carried through 
them, as well as in the excellent tact which he shows in seizing on 
all the points of national character which are capable of effect. "' " 

'• The story of * The Xowlans ' and that of •' Croohore of the Bill- 
Eook,'"'" writes Mr. Chambers, '•'can never be forgotten by those 
who have once perused them. The force of the passions and the 
effects of crime have rarely been painted with such overmastering 
enero-y. or wrouo;ht into narratives of more sustained and harrowins: 
interest.** ^ 

As a distinguished dramatist, novelist, and. above all. as a mem, 
John Banim stands in the front rank. He is a powerful describer 

5 Letter of June 18. 1825. 

^ '• CyclopEedia of English Literature," toI. ii. 



4 1 6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

of Irish life, for his genius was truly Irish, and his knowledge of 
the Irish character, habits, and customs, was most accurate. He was 
a brave, noble, generous-hearted man. His purse — often poorly 
filled — was always open to the needy and the distressed. Like all 
good and lofty geniuses, jealousy of rivals was to him a feeling un- 
known. He w^as ever ready to assist Gerald G-riffin, and was the 
only true friend which that bright soul of genius met in London. ^^ I 
cannot tell you," writes Griffin to his brother, '^the many many in- 
stances in which Banim has shown his friendship since I wrote last ; 
let it sufiice to say that he is the sincerest, heartiest, most disinter- 
ested being that breathes. His fireside is the only one Avhere I en- 
joy anything like social life or home." 

We consider Banim's letters as, perhaps, the most hearty, direct, 
and graceful specimens of epistolary correspondence in English 
literature. There is about them a simplicity, easy dash, and pointed 
brevity for which we look in vain in other great authors. 

The following lines to the memory of Johji Banim are from the 
pen of the Hon. Thomas D'Arcy McGee : 

" Gro preach to those who have no souls to save, who would not shed a tear 
O'er beauty's bhght, or patriot's worth, or virtue on the bier ; 
Far from the land that bore us, oft did he restore 
The memory of our earlier days, our country's matchless lore ! 

" Who hath not paused wiuh burning brow o'er his immortal story 
Of Sarsfield and his Irish hearts in Limerick's fist of glory, 
Or sorrowed with the aged priest or MacNary's lovely daughter, 
Or felt the power that genius sheds o'er Boyne's historic water ? 

" Scarce had he to the world given the ancient pastor's worth 
When he whose pen could paint the soul was torn away from earth ; 
And many a calm declining eve upon his tombless grave 
Shall Kilkenny's daughters strew their flowers and sing a requiem stave,'"' 

7 Banim's works, in ten volumes, are published by D. & J. Sadlier & Co., New York. 



yohii Banim. ^ij 

SELECTIONS FEOM BA^^M'S WRITINGS. 



Am I a slave, they say, 

Soggartli Ai'oon? 
Since yon did show the way, 

Soggarth Ai'oon I 
Their slave no more to be, 
"While they did work with me 
Old Ireland's slavery, 

Soggarth Ai"oon ! 

Why not her poorest man, 

Soggarth Ai'oon I 
Try and do all he can, 

Soggarth Ai'oon ' 
Her commands to fnlfil. 
Of his own heart and will. 
Side by side with yon still, 

Soggarth Aroon ? 

Loyal and brave to you, 

Soggai-th Aroon ! 
Yet be no slave to yon, 

Soggarth Aroon I 
Xor, out of fear to yon. 
Stand up so near to yon — 
Och I out of fear to yoK I 

Soggarth Aroon ! 

Who in the winter's night, 

Soggarth Aroon ! 

When the cold blast did bite, 

Soggarth Aroon I 

Came to my cabin-door, 

And on my cabin-floor. 

Knelt by me sick and poor, 

Soggarth Aroon ? 

® Soggarth Aroon ! — Priest dear. 



41 8 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland, 

Who on the marriage-day, 

Soo^orarth Ai'oon ! 

^lade tlie poor cabin gay, 

Soofo-arth Aroon ! 

CO 

And did both laugh and sing, 
Making our hearts to ring, 
At the poor christening, 

Soggarth Aroon ? 

Who as fi'iend only met, 

Sofforarth Aroon ! 
Neyer did flout me yet, 

Sosfsartli Aroon ! 
And when my heart was dim 
Gave, while his eye did brim. 
What I should give to him, 

Soggarth Aroon ? 

Och ! you, and only you, 

Soggarth Aroon ! 
And for this I was true to you, 

Sosfsrarth Aroon ! 
In love they'll never shake. 
When for Old Ireland's sake 
We a true part did take ! 

Sooforarth Aroon ! 



AILLEES". 



'Tis not for love of gold I go, 

*Tis not for love of fame. 
Though fortune should her smile bestow. 

And I may win a name, 

Ailleen, 

And I may win a name. 

And vet it is for 2:olcl I ofo, 

And yet it is for fame — 
That they may deck another brow. 

And bless another name, 

Ailleen, 

And bless another name. 



jolui Baiiiin. 419 

For tliis, but this, I go : for this 

I lose thy love awhile. 
And all the soft and qniet bliss 

Of thy young, faithful smile, 

Ailleen, 

Of thy young, faithful smile. 

And I go to brave a world I hate, *■ 

And woo it o'er and o'er, 
And tempt a wave and try a fate 

Upon a stranger shore, 

AiUeen, 

TTpon a stranger shore. 

Oh I when the bays are all my own, 

I know a heart will care : 
Oh I when the gold is wooed and won, 

I know a brow shall wear, 

AiUeen, 

I know a brow shall wear*. 

And when with both rerumed again. 

My native land to see, 
I know a smile will meet me there, 

And a hand will welcome me, 

Ailleen, 

And a hand w^ll welcome me. 



THE BECOXCILIATIOX. 

[The facts recorded in this baUad occurred in a little mountain chapel in the 
coanty of Ckre at the time efforts were made to put an end to faction fighting 
among the peasantry.] 

The old man knelt at the altar. 

His enemy's hand to take. 
And at first his weak voice did falter 

And his feeble limbs did shake : 
For his only brave boy, his glory. 

Had been stretched at the old man's feet 
A corpse, all so haggard and gorr. 

By the hand which he now must greet. 



420 The Prose and Poetry of Irela7id. 

And soon the old man stopt sj^eaking. 

And rage, which had not gone by. 
For nnder his brows came breaking 

Up into his enemy's eye ; 
And now his hmbs were not shaking, 

But his clenched hands his bosom crossed. 
And he looked a fierce wish to be takins: 

Eevenge for the boy he had lost. 

But the old man he looked around him 
And thought of the place he was in, 

And thought of the promise which bound him. 
And thought that reyenge was sin : 

And then, crying tears like a woman, 

" Your hand,'* he said, '* ay, tliat hand. 

And I do forgiye you, foeman, 

For the sake of our bleedins: land I '' 



THE 5T0LEX SHEEP. 
[From " The Bit o' Writin'."] 

The faults of the lower classes of the Irish are sufficiently well 
known ; perhaps their yirtues have not been proportionately ob- 
served, or recorded for observation. 

The Irish plague, called typhus fever, raged in its terrors. In 
almost every third cabin there was a coq^se daily. In every one, 
without an exception, there was what had made the corj^se — hun- 
ger. It need not be added that there was poverty, too. The poor 
could not btiry their dead. From mixed motives of self-jDrotection, 
terror, and benevolence, those in easier circumstances exerted them- 
selves to administer rehef in different ways. Money was sub- 
scribed : wholesome food, or food as wholesome as a bad season 
permitted, was provided ; and men of respectability, bracing their 
minds to avert the danger that threatened themselves by boldly 
facing it, entered the infected house, where death reigned almost 
alone, and took measures to cleanse and purify the close-cribbed 
air and the rough, bare walls. Before proceeding to oiu- story, let 
us be permitted to mention some general marks of Irish virtue, 
which, under those circumstances, we jDersonally noticed. In 



John Banim. 421 

poverty, in abject misery, and at a sliort and fearful notice, the poor 
man died like a Christian. He gave vent to none of the poor man's 
complaints or invectives against the rich man who had neglected 
him, or who, he might have su23posed, had done so till it was too 
late. Except for a glance — and doubtless a little inward pang 
while he glanced — at the starving and perhaps infected wife, or 
child, or old j)arent, as helpless as the child^ he blessed G-od and 
died. 

The apj)earance of a comforter at his wretched bedside, even 
when he knew comfort to be useless, made his heart grateful and his 
spasmed lips eloquent in thanks. In cases of indescribable misery — 
some member of his family lying lifeless before his eyes, or else 
some dying, stretched upon damp and uncleau straw, on an earthen 
floor, without cordial for his lips or potatoes to point out to a cry- 
ing infant^-often we have heard him whisj^er to himself (and to 
another who heard him), **' The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketli 
awav; blessed be the name of the Lord."' Such men need not 
always make bad neighbors. 

Id the early progress of the fever, before the more affluent aroused 
themselves to avert its career, we cross the threshold of an indi- 
vidual peasant. His young wife lies dead ; his second child is 
dying at her side ; he has just sunk into a corner himself under the 
first stun of disease, long resisted. The only persons of his family 
who have escaped contagion, and are likely to escape it, are his old 
father, who sits weeping feebly upon the hob, and his first-born, a 
boy of three or four years, who, standing between the old man's 
knees, cries also for food. 

We visit the young peasant's abode some time after. He has not 
sunk under ^' the sickness." He is fast regaining his strength, even 
without proper nourishment ; he can creep out of doors and sit in 
the sun. But in the exjDression of his sallow and emaciated face 
there is no joy for his escape from the grave as he sits there silent, 
brooding. His father and his surviving child 'are still hungry — 
more hungry, indeed, and more helpless than ever, for the neigh- 
bors who had relieved the family with a potato and a mug of sour 
milk are now stricken doT\TL themselves, and want assistance to a 
much greater extent than they can give it. 

'•'I wish Mr. Evans was in the place,'' cogitated Michaul CaiToU ; 
*'a body could spake for'nent him, and not spake for nothin', for all 
that he's an Englishman ; and I don't like the thoughts o' goin' up 



42 2 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

to the house to the steward's face; it wouldn't turn kind to a body. 
Maybe he'd soon come home to us, the masther himself." 

Another fortnight elapsed. Michaul's hope proved vain. Mr. 
Evans was still in London ; though a regular resident on his small 
Irish estate since it had come into his i^ossession; business unfortu- 
nately — and he would have said so himself — now kept him an un- 
usually long time absent. Thus disappointed, Michaul overcame 
his repugnance to appear before the '^hard" steward. He only 
asked for work, however. There was none to be had. He turned 
his slow and still feeble foot into the adjacent town. It was market- 
day, and he took up his place among the crowd of other claimants for 
agricultural employment, shouldering a spade, as did each of his 
comrades. Many farmers came to the well-known '^stannin','' and 
hired men at his right and at his left, but no one addressed Michaul. 
Once or twice, indeed, touched perhaps by his sidelong looks of 
beseeching misery, a farmer stopped a moment before him, and 
glanced over his figure ; but his worn and almost shaking limbs 
giving little promise of present vigor in the working-field, worldly 
prudence siDon conquered the humane feeling which started towards 
him in tlae man's heart, and, with a choking in his throat, poor 
Michaul saw the arbiter of his fate pass on. 

He walked homewards without having broken his fast that day, 
^^ Bud, musha, what's the harm o' that," he said to himself ; *^only 
here's the ould father an' her pet boy, the weenoch without a pyathee 
either. y^QWastliore, if they can't have thepyathees, they must have 
betther food — that's all. Ay," he muttered, clenching his hands 
at his sides, and imprecating fearfully in Irish, ^^an' so they must." 

He left his house again, and walked a good way to beg a few po- 
tatoes. He did not come home quite empty-handed ; his father 
and his child had a meal. He ate but few himself ; and when he 
was about to lie down in his corner for the night, he said to the old 
man across the room : "^ Don't be crvino- to-night, father — vou and 
the child there — but sleep well, an' ye'll have the good break'ast 
afore ye in the morning."' 

'^ The good break'ast, ma-bouclial T a-thin an' where 'ill id come 
from ? " 

"A body promised it to me, father." 

^^ Amcli, Michaul, an' sure its fun you're making of us now at 
any rate. Bud, the good night, a-cJiorra,^'' an' my blessin' on your 

® My boy. lo Term of endearment. 



yohii Banim, 423 

head, Michaul. If we keep trust in the good God, an' ax his bless- 
in' too, mornin' and evenin', gettin' up and lyin' down, he'll be a 
friend to us at last. That was always an' ever my word to you, poor 
boy since you was the years o' your own weenoch now fast asleep at my 
side ; an' it's my word to you now, ma-bouclial, and you won't forget 
id. And there's one sayin' the same to you out o' heaven this night 
— herself an' her little angel-in-glory, by the hand, Michaul a-vour- 
neen.''' 

Having thus spoken in the fervent and rather exaggerated, though 
everyday, words of pious allusion of the Irish i^oor man, old Carroll 
soon dropped asleep with his arms around his little grandson, both 
overcome by an unusually abundant meal. In the middle of the 
night he was awakened by a stealthy noise. Without moving, he 
cast his eyes round the cabin. A small window, through which the 
moon broke brilliantly, was open. He called to his son, but received 
no auswer. He called again and again ; all remained silent. He 
arose, and crept to the corner where Michaul had lain down. It 
was empty. He looked out through the window into the moon- 
hght. The figure of a man appeared at a distance just about to 
enter a pasture-field belonging to Mr. Evans. 

The old man leaned his back against the wall of the cabin, tremb- 
lin^c with sudden and terrible miscrivinsrs. With him the lans:uao-e 
of virtue which we have heard him utter was not cant. 

In early prosperity, in subsequent misfortunes, and in his late 
and present excess of wretchedness he had never swerved in 2^rac- 
tice from the spirit of his own exhortations to honesty before men, 
and love for and dependence upon God, which, as he has truly said, 
he had constantly addressed to his son since his earliest childhood. 
And hitherto that son had indeed walked by his precepts, further 
assisted by a regular observance of the duties of his religion. "Was 
he now about to turn into another path, to bring shame on his 
father in his old age, to put a stain on their family and their 
name ? " the name that a rogue or a bould woman never bore," con- 
tinued old Carroll, indulging in some of the pride and egotism for 
which an Irish peasant is, under his circtimstance, remarkable. 
And then came the thought of the personal peril incuiTcd by 
Michaul, and his agitation, incurred by the feebleness of age, nearly 
overpowered him. 

He was sitting on the floor shivering like one in an ague fit, when 
lie heard steps outside the house. He listened and they ceased, but 



424 The P7u?se and Poetry of Ireland. 

the familiar noise of an old barn-door creaking on its crazy liiuges 
came on his ear. It was now day-dawn. He dressed himself, stole 
ont cautiously, 23eeped into the barn through a chink of the door, 
and all he feared met full confirmation. There, indeed, sat Michaul, 
busily and earnestly enofasfed, with a frowninof brow and a ha2:2:ai*d 
face, in quartering the animal he had stolen from Mr. Eyans's 
field. 

The sight sickened the father — the blood on his son's hands and 
all. He was barely able to keep himself from falling. A fear, if 
not a dislike, of the unhappy culprit also came upon him. His un- 
conscious impttlse was to re-enter their cabin unperceiyed, without 
speaking a word. He succeeded in doing so, and then he fastened 
the door again, and undressed and resumed his place beside his in- 
nocent little grandson. 

About an hour after, Michaul came in cautiously through the 
still open window, and also undressed and reclined on his straw, 
after glancing towards his father's bed, who pretended to be asleep. 

At the usual time for arising old Carroll saw him suddenly jump 
up and j^repare to go abroad. He spoke to him, leaning on his 
elbow. 

•'• An' what IjoTlg '^ is on you, ma-houchal? " 

'* Going for the good break'ast I j^romised you, father dear.*' 

•' An' who's the good Christian 'ill giye id to us, Michaul ? " 

" Oh I you'll know that soon, father : now. a good-by." He hur- 
ried to the door. 

*''A good-by, the Michaul; bud, tell me what's that on your 
hand?" 

*'• Xo — nothing," stammered Michaul, changing color, as he 
hastily examined the hand himself. •'•'Xothing is on id: what 
could there be ?" 

Xor was there, for he had yery carefully remoyed all eyidence of 
guilt from his person, and the father's question was asked upon 
grounds distinct from anything he then saw. 

'* Well, avich, an" sure I didn't say anything was on it wrong, or 
anythiiig to make you look so quare an' spake so sthrange to your 
father this mornin'. Only I'll ax you, Michaul, oyer again. Who 
has tuk such a sudd'n hkin' to us to send us the good break'ast ? an 
answer me sthraight, Michaul. What is it to be that you call so 
good ? " 

11 WTiat are vou alDOut ? 



John Banim. 425 

"The good mate, father." He was again passing the threshold. 

" Stop ! '' cried his father, " stoj^, and turn foment me. Mate — 
the good mate ? What 'ud bring mate into our poor house, Mi- 
chaul ? Tell me, I bid you again an' again, who is to give id to 
you?" 

" Why, as I said afore father, a body that " — 

" A body that thieved it, Michaul Carroll !" added the old man, 
as his son hesitated, walking close up 'to the culprit. "A body 
that thieved id, an' no other body. Don't think to blind me, Mi- 
chaul. I am ould, to be sure, but sense enough is left in me to 
look round among the neighbors in my own mind and knoAV that 
none of 'em that has the will has the power to send us the mate 
for our break' ast in an honest way. An' I don't say outright that 
you had the same thought wid me when you consented to take it 
froDi a thief. I don't mean to say that you'd go to turn a thief's 
recaiver at this hour o' your life, an' afther growin' up from a boy 
to a man widout bringin' a spot o' shame on yourself, or on your 
weenock, or on one of us. Xo, I won't say that. Your heart was 
scalded, Michaul, and your mind was darkened, for a start, and the 
thought 0' getting comfort for tli^ ould father and the little son 
made you consent in a hurry, widout lookin' well afore you or wid- 
out lookin' up to your good God." 

"Father, father, let me alone ; don't spake them words to me ! " 
interrupted Michaul, sitting on a stool, and spreading his large 
and hard hands over his face. 

"Well, thin, an' I won't, avicli, I won't ; nothin' to trouble you 
sure ; I did'nt mean id. Only this, a-vourneen^ don't bring a mouth- 
ful 0' the bad, unlucky victuals into this cabin. The pyatees, the 
wild berries o' the bush, the Avild roots o' the earth will be sweeter 
to us, Michaul ; the hunger itself will be sweeter ; an' when we give 
God thanks afther our poor meal, or afther no meal at all, our hearts 
will be lighter, and our ho|)es for to-morrow sthronger, avich-ma- 
cliree, than if we faisted on the fat 0' the land, but couldn't ax a 
blessin' on our faist." 

"Well, thin, I won't either, father, I won't; an' sure yon have 
your own way now. I'll only go out a little while from you to 
beg ; or else, as you say, to root down in the ground with my nails, 
like a, baste-brute, for our break'ast." 

"' My vourneen you are, Micliaul, an' my blessing on your head ! 
Yes, to be sure, avich, beg, an I'll beg wid you. Sorrow a shame is 



426 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

in that ; no, but a good deed, Michaul, when it is done to keep ns 
honest. So come, we'll go among the Christians together. Only 
before we go, Michaul, my dear son, tell me — tell me one thing. " 

^' What, father ? " Michaul began to suspect. 

" Never be afraid to tell me, Michaul Carroll, ma-bouclial, I won't 
— I can't be angry wid you now. You are sorry, an' your Father 
in heaven forgives you, and so do T. But you know, avicli, there 
would be danger in quitting the place without hiding well every 
scrap of anything that could tell on us." 

^' Tell on us ! What can tell us ? " demanded Michaul ; " what's 
in the place to tell on us ? " 

" Xothing in the cabin, I know, Michaul ; but — " 

'' But what, father ? " 

'^ Have yon left nothin' in the way out there ? " whispered the 
old man, ]3ointing towards the barn. 

^' Out there ? Where ? What ? What do yon mean at all now, 
father ? Sure yon know its 3'our own self has kept me from as 
much as lay in' a hand on it." 

^^Ay, to-day — mornin' ; but yon laid a hand on it last night, 
avicli, an' sc — " 

*^ Curp-an cVwul! " imprecated Michaul ; '^ this is too bad at any 
rate. Xo, I didn't, last night or any other night. Let me alone, I 
bid you, father." 

" Come back again, Michaul," commanded old Carroll, as the son 
once more hurried to the door, and his words were instantly obeyed. 
Michaul, after a glance abroad and a start, which the old man did 
not notice, paced to the middle of the floor, hanging his head, and 
saying in a low voice : ^^Hushth now, father ; it's time." 

'•'Ko, Michaul, I will not hushth ; and it's not time. Come out 
with me to the barn." 

'^Hushthl" repeated Michaul, whispering sliarj)ly. He had 
glanced sideways to the square patch of strong morning sunlight 
on the ground of the cabin, defined there by the shape of the open 
door, and saw it intruded npon by the shadow of a man's bust lean- 
ing forward in an earnest posture. 

" Is id in your mind to go back into your sin, Michaul, an' tell me 
you were not in the barn at daybreak the mornin' ? " asked his fa- 
ther, still unconscious of a reason for silence. 

'^ Arrah, hushth, ould man I " Michael made a hasty sign towards 
the door, but was disregarded. 



jfokii Ba7iim. 427 

'' I saw you in id." pursued old Carroll sterulv: '•'ay. au' at your 
work iu id, too." 

'• ^Vliat's that your sayiu*, ould Peery Carroll ? " deniauded a well- 
known voice. 

'*' Enough, to hang his son/" whispered Michaul to his father, as 
Mr. Evans's land-steward, followed by his herdsman and two pohce- 
men, entered the cabin. In a few minutes afterwards the policemen 
had in charge the dismembered carcass of the sheep, dug up out of 
the floor of the barn, and were escorting !Michatil, handcuffed, to the 
county jail, in the vicinity of the next town. They could find no 
trace of the animal's skin, though they sought attentively for it, 
and this seemed to disappoint them and the steward a good deal. 

From the moment that they entered the cabin till their depart- 
ure, old Carroll did not speak a word. "Without knowing it, as it 
seemed, he sat down on his straw bed, and remained staring stupidly 
around him, or at one or other of his visitors. "When Michaul was 
about to leave the wretched abode, he j)aced quickly towards his 
iather, and, holding out his ironed hands and turning his cheek 
for a kiss, said, smihng miserably, ^^ God be wid you, father dear." 
Still the old man was silent, and the prisoner and all his attendants 
passed out on the road. But it was then the agony of old Carroll 
assumed a distinctness. Uttering a fearfid cry, he snatched u]d his 
still sleeping httle grandson, ran with the boy in his arms till he 
overtook Michaul, and kneeling down before him in the dust, 
said : 

*^* I ax pardon o' you, avich ; won't you tell me I have id afore you 
go ? An' here I've brought Httle Peery for you to kiss ; you forgot 
him, a-vourneen.'' 

'' Xo, father, I didn't ; '*' answered lEichaul, as he stooped to kiss 
the child ; ^* an' get up, father, get up ; my hands are not my own, 
or I wouldn't let you do that afore your son. Get up, there's no- 
thin' for you to throuble yourself about — that is, I mean, I have 
nothin' to f orsrive vou : no, but evervthinsr to be thankful for, and 
to love you for ; you were always and ever the good father to me : 
an' — " The many strong and bitter feehngs which till now he 
had almost j^erfectly kept in found full vent, and poor ^Michaul 
could not go on. The parting fi'om his father, however, so dif- 
ferent from what it had jDromised to be, comf oited him. The old 
man held him in his arms and wept on his neck. They were sepa- 
rated with difficultv. 



428 The Prose and Poetiy of Ireland, 

Peery Carroll, sitting on the roadside, after he had lost sight 
of the prisoner, and holding his screaming grandson on his knees^ 
thought the cup of his trials was full. By his imprudence he 
had fixed the proof of guilt on his own child ; that reflection was 
enough for him ; and he could indulge it only generally. But he 
was yet to conceive exactly in what a dilemma he had involved him- 
self as well as Michaul. The policemen came back to compel his 
appearance before the magistrate ; and when the little child had 
been disposed of in a neighbor's cabin, he understood, to his conster- 
nation and horror, that he was to be chief witness against the sheep- 
stealer. Mr. Evans's steward knew well the meaning of the words 
he had heard him say in the cabin, and that if compelled to swear 
all he was aware of, no doubt would exist of the criminality of 
Michaul in the eyes of the jury. '^ 'Tis a sthrange thing to ax a 
father to do," muttered Peery more than once, as he j)i'oceeded to 
the magistrate's ; ^' it's a very sthrange thing." 

The magistrate proved to be humane man. ^N^otwithstanding the 
zeal of the steward and the policemen, he committed Michaul for 
trial without continuing to press the hesitating and bewildered old 
Peery into any detailed evidence ; his nature seemed to rise against 
the task, and he said to the steward, ^''I have enough of facts for 
making out a committal ; if you think the father will be necessary 
on the trial, subpoena him." 

The steward objected that Peery would abscond, and demanded 
to have him bound over to prosecute, on two sureties, solvent and 
respectable. The magistrate assented ; Peery could name no bail ; 
and consequently he also was marched to |)rison, though prohibited 
from holding the least intercourse with Michaul. 

The assizes soon came on. Michaul was arraigned ; and during 
his plea of ^^ not gnilt}^ " his father appeared, unseen by him, in the 
jailer's custody, at the back of the dock, or rather in an inner dock. 
The trial excited a keen and painful interest in the court, the bar, 
the jury-box, and the crowds of spectators. It was universally 
known that a son had stolen a sheep, partly to feed a starving father, 
and that out of the mouth of the father it was now sought to con- 
demn him. ^^ What will the old man do ? " was the general ques- 
tion which ran through the assembly. And while few of the lower 
orders could contemplate the possibility of his swearing the truth, 
many of tlieir betters scarce hesitated to make out for him a case 
of natural necessity of swearing falsely. 



yokn Baniin. 429 

The trial began. The first witness, the herdsman, proved the loss 
of the sheep and the finding the dismembered carcass in the old 
barn. The policeman and the steward followed to the same effect, 
and the latter added the allusions which he had heard the father 
make to the son iij)on the morning of the arrest of the latter. 
The steward went down from the table. There was a panse and 
complete silence, which the attorney for the prosecution broke by 
saying to the crier deliberately, "Call Peery Carroll." 

" Here, sir," immediately answered Peery, as the jailer led him 
by a side-door out of the back dock to the table. The prisoiier 
started round, but the new witness against him had passed for an 
instant into the crowd. 

The next instant old Peery was seen ascending the table, assisted 
by the jailer and by many other commiserating hands near him. 
Every glance fixed on his face. The barristers looked wistfully uj) 
from their seats round the table ; the judge put a glass to his eye 
and seemed to study his features attentively. Among the audience 
there ran a low but expressive murmur of pity and interest. 

Though much emaciated by confinement, anguish, and suspense, 
Peery's cheeks had a flush and his weak blue eyes glittered. The 
half-gaping expression of his parched and haggard lips was misera- 
ble to see. Yet he did not tremble much nor appear so confounded 
as upon the day of his visit to the magistrate. 

The moment he stood upright on the table he turned himself 
fully to the judge, without a glance towards the dock. 

'' Sit down, sit down, poor man," said the judge. 

"'Thanks to you, my lord, I will," answered Peery, "only first 
I'd ax you to let me kneel for a little start. " 

He accordingly did kneel, and after bowing his head and forming 
the sign of the cross on his forehead, he looked up and said: "' My 
Judge in heaven above, 'tis you I pray to keep me in my duty afore 
my earthly judge this day. Amen !" Then, repeating the sign of 
the cross, he seated himself. 

The examination of the witness commenced, and humanely jjro- 
ceeded as follows (the counsel for the prosecution taking no notice 
of the superfluity of Peery's answers) : 

" Do you know Michaul or Michael Carroll, the prisoner at the 
bar?" 

"'Afore that night, sir, I believed I knew him well — every 
thought of his mind, every bit of the heart in his body. Afore 



43 o The Prose and Poetjy of P^ela^id. 

tliat nis^ht no liviuo; crature could tlirow a word at Micliaul Car- 
roll, or say lie ever forgot his father's rearin' or his love of his good 
God. Sure the people are afther telliu' you by this time how it 
came about that night ; an', my lord, an' ye gintlemen, an' all good 
Christians that hear me, here I am to help to hang him, my own 
boy, and my only one. But for all that, gintlemen, ye ought to think 
of it. 'Twas for the weenoch and the ould father that he done it. 
Indeed an' 'deed, we hadn't a pyatee in the place, and the sickness 
was among us a start afore ; it took the wife from him an' another 
babv, an' id had himself down a week or so beforehand ; an' all that 
day he was looking for work, but couldn't get a hand's turn to do. 
An' that's the way it was. ^ot a mouthful for me an' little Peery. 
More betoken, he grew sorry for id in the mornin', and promised 
me not to touch a scrap of what was in the barn — ay, long afore the 
steward an' the peelers came on us — ^l3ut was wilhn' to go among the 
neighbors an' beg our breakfast, along wid myself, from door to 
door, sooner than touch it." 

^•' It is my painful duty," resumed the barrister, when Peery 
would at length cease, ^* to ask you for closer information. You 
saw Michael Carroll in the barn that night ? '' 

'■' Muslia — the Lord pity him an' me ! — I did, sir." 

^' Doing what ? " 

*' The sheep between his hands," answered Peery, dropping his 
head and speaking almost inaudibly. 

^^ I must still give you pain, I fear. Stand up, take the criers 
rod, and if you see Michael Carroll in court lay it on his head." 

^' Ocli, muslia, musha, sir, don't ax me to do that I" pleaded 
Peery, rising, wringing his hands, and, for the first time, weeping. 
''• Och, don't, mv lord, don't, and mav vour own ludsrment be favor- 
able the last day I " 

^* I am sorrv to command vou to do it. witness, but vou must 
take the rod.'' answered the iud^'e, bendins^ his head close to his 
notes to hide his own tears. At the same time many a veteran bar- 
rister rested his forehead on tlie edge of the table. In the body of 
the court were heard sobs. 

••'Michaal, avich ! Michaul, a corra-ma-clireel" exclaimed Peery, 
when at length he took the rod, and faced around to his son. "Is 
id your father they make to do it, ma-bouchal? " 

"My father does what is right," answered Michaul in Irish. 

The judge immediately asked to have his words translated, and 



JoJui Banim. 431 

when he learned their import, regarded the prisoner with satis- 
faction. 

•' We rest here, my lord," said the counsel, with the air of a man 
freed from a painftil task. 

The iudsre instantly turned to the iury-box : '' Gentlemen of the 
jury, that the j^risoner at the bar stole the sheep in question there 
can be no shade of moral doubt ; but you have a very pecuhar case 
to consider. A son steals a sheep that his own famishing father 
and his own famishing son may have food. His aged ^^arent is 
compelled to give evidence against him here for the act. The old 
man yirtuotisly tells the whole trath before you and me. He sacri- 
fices his natural feelings — and we have seen that they are lively — 
to his honesty and to his religiotts sense of the sacred obligations of 
an oath. Gentlemen, I will pause to observe that the old man's 
conduct is strikingly exemplary, and even noble. It teaches all of 
us a lesson. Gentlemen, it is not within the province of a judge to 
censure the rigor of the proceedings which have sent him before us ; 
btit I venture to anticipate your pleasure that, notwithstanding all 
the evidence given, yoti will be enabled to acqtiit the old man's son, 
the prisoner at the bar. I have said there cannot be the shade of a 
moral doubt that he has stolen the sheep, and I repeat the words ; 
but, gentlemen, there is a legal doubt, to the full benefit of which 
he is entitled. The sheep has not been identified. The herdsman 
could not venture to identify it (and it would have been strange if 
he could) from the dismembered limbs found in the barn. To his 
mark on its skin, indeed, he might have positively spoken ; btit no 
skin has been discovered. Therefore, according to the evidence — 
and you have sworn to decide by that alone — the prisoner is entitled 
to yottr acquittal. Possibly, now that the prosecutor sees the case 
in its full bearing, he may be pleased with this result.'' 

While the jury, in evident satisfaction, prepared to return their 
verdict, Mr. Evans, who had but a moment before returned home, 
entered the court, and, becoming awai-e of the concluding words of 
the judge, ex2:»ressed his sorrow aloud that the prosecution had ever 
been undertaken : that circumstances had kept him ttninformed of 
it, thousfh it had o^one on in his name. And he besrsfed leave to as- 
sure his lordship that it would be his future efiort to keep Michaul 
CaiToll in his former path of honesty by finding him honest and 
ample employment, and, as far as in him lay, to reward theviriue 
of the old fatlier. 



432 TJic Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland, 

"VTbile Peery Carroll was laughing and crying in a breath in the 
arms of his delivered son, a subscription commenced by the bar 
was mounting into a considerable sum for his advantage. 



LETTERS OF JOHX BAXBI. 
LETTEE TO HIS BEOTHER. 

DuBLix, May 10, 1820. 
My deae Michael: The health that I enjoy is wonderful to 
myself. Do not be so fearful on my account. You that stay at 
home and are very happy have many superfluous apprehensions 
about a yotinger son or brother who roves about a little. 

Be assured of this, my dear and only friends, almost the sole 
thing that sends the blood to my heart or the tear to my eye is the 
recollection, now and then, that I am parted from you : but this 
ofives me srreater strensrth for the struo-ale to sfet back — and back 
I will return , if God spares me life, and we will spend and end our 
days together. 

Your affectionate brother, 

JoffiS" Baxim. 



TO HIS BROTHEE. 

DuBLix, May 18, 1820. 

My deae Michael : You speak very gloomily on the uncertainty 
of my means if I go to London. Don't let yoiu* fear affect yoti so 
keenly. I have not found a crock of gold, nor has a prize in the 
lottery turned w^ for me ; but, with Heaven's help, I shall not want 
means. Xo man of ordinary talents wants them in London, with 
proper conduct and half the introductions I hold. Say I j^ossess no 
talent — this yott will not say ; it would not be what you feel — I have 
a consciousness of possessing some powers, and, situated as I am, 
it is not vanity to say so. I have health, hoj)e, energy, and good- 
humor, and I trust in the Lord God for the rest. 

I know not how long I could fast : even this I may be called on 
to try. I have been the best part of two days without tasting food 
of late. Often have I gone to whistle for my dinner, and once I 
walked about the town durins^ the niofht for want of a bed. I see 
vou Start at this. I can assure vou, without affectation, it has 



John Banim. ^^33 

amused me, and I thrive on it. I am fatter and better-looking 
than when you saw me. At the present time I am comparatively 
rich, and go so high as tenpence for my dinner, and a goodly plate 
of beef and vegetables it is. 

Most affectionately yours, 

John Baj^^im. 



TO HIS FATHER. 

DuBLiif, October 12, 1820. 

My dear Father : When difficulties pressed most upon me, I 
determined to wage war with them manfully ; I called on my own 
mind, and put its friendship for me to the proof. In the midst of 
occasionally using my pencil, of newspaper scribbling and reporting, 
and surrounded by privation, and almost every evil but bad health, 
I manufactured some hundreds of verses, with notes appending, 
which I called " Ossian's Paradise." 

I handed ^^ Ossian's Paradise" to a friend, an eminent poet, 
celebrated orator, and lawyer. He showed it to a friend of his, a 
Mr. Curran, who introduced it to Lord Cloncurry. It pleased both. 
It was subsequently submitted to the gi'eatest writer of the age, 
Scott. His judgment was : '* It is a poem possessing imagination 
in a high degree, often much beauty of language, with a consider- 
able command of numbers and metre." This opinion was accom- 
panied by a candid criticism on particular portions, with a view to 
its success when published. 

" Ossian's Paradise " is to be published by Mr. Warren, of Bond 
Street, London. I am to receive £20 within a month, with fifty 
copies to dispose of on my own account. If it runs to a second 
edition, £10 more. These terms my friend before mentioned, Mr. 
Shiel, thinks advantageous. 

My dear Father, do not blame me for not communicating this 
matter in its progress. I will explain my motive. My failures 
hitherto had given to all of you at home quite enough of uneasiness, 
and I wished to have a rational probability of success in view before 
I should excite your interest. If I failed, I had determined to be 
silent on the affair to you, my mother, and Michael, and to all the 
world besides. 

Do me the favor, my dear Sir, of requesting Michael to read this 



434 ^^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

letter for my old schoolmaster, Mr. Buchanan, and fill your glass 
in the evening to the success of '' Ossian's Paradise," when you 
three are seated round the little octagon table in your own sanctum 
sanctorum. And my own dearest mother, perhaps she may have cause 
to think more respectably than was her wont of my rhyming pro- 
pensities. Believe me your most affectionate son, 

John Baxi3I. 



TO HIS FATHER. 

DuBLix, November 30, 1820. 
My dear Father : I am employed for another and larger work, 
which, in case of the success of the present, Mr. Warren promises 
to give me a fair price for. I am not flattered into an}-thing like 
sanguine hope. I will continue to do my best. If I succeed, I will 
thank God ; if I fail, it may be for the better, and I will thank Him 
then also. 

In remembering me to my dearest mother and to Joanna, say 
that I thank them for their present. They have knitted me a fine 
lot of stockings indeed, which fit me excellently well, and to all 
-apjoearance they are everlasting. 

With love to all at home, I am, as ever, 

JoHX Banim. 



to his father axd mother. 

LoxDOx. T Amelia Place, I 
PuLHAM Road, March 30, 1S22. ] 

My dear Father a2s"D Mother : We '' got into London on Mon- 
day evening. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday we spent lodging- 
hunting. We settled here yesterday. We are pleasantly situated as 
regards accommodation, and when I retire to the back drawing-room, 
which I have fixed upon for my study, I am as quiet as if I were in 
a wood. 

Exclusive of the convenience I enjoy, there is a charm attached 
to my abode that recommended it to me above all others. I breathe 
the very air of inspiration : I sit in the same chair, I lounge on the 

^2 Himself and Ms wife. 



John Baiiim. 435 

same sofa, and I think, read, and write in the very study where 
John Philpot Curran sat, lounged, and thought. 

Four years of the latter |3art of this great man's life were spent 

in the rooms I now occupy. His thoughts even yet, perhaps, float 

about my little study ; and when I lock the door and sit down, I 

almost imagine I can get them into a corner and make them my own. 

Ever truly and lovingly your devoted son, 

JoHif Bakim. 



TO HIS BKOTHEE. 

London, May 2, 1824. 

My dear Michael : I have read attentively, and with the great- 
est pleasure, the portion of the tale you sent me by J. H . So 

fai* as it goes, I pronounce that you have been successful. Here and 
there I have marked such particular criticisms as struck me, and 
those you may note by referring to the margin. I send you the 
MSS. of my tale, and I request your severest criticisms ; scratch out 
and condemn at your pleasure. This is the first copy. Looking 
over it, I perceive many parts that are bad ; send it back when you 
can with every suggestion you are capable of making. Read it over 
for«the whole family in solemn conclave. Let Father, Mother, Joanna, 
and yourself sit in judgment on it, and send me all your opinions 
sincerely given. I have met some eminent literary characters lately, 
and many of whom I had formed high notions fall far short of my 
expectations. 

I will say no more about these, and at your peril keep my gossip 
to yourself. Hap ! hap ! it is dangerous to meddle with edged 
tools ; a chip from an angry Tiomme de lettres " would cut deej). 

I have had opportunities for coming into close contact with 
Geoffrey Crayon.'* He is as natural as his sketches, a man who 
would play with a child on the carpet, and one of the few litterateurs 
I have known whose face and character are in sincere keeping with, 
his talents. 

Believe me, dear Michael, ever yours, 

John Bakim. 

*3 A literary man. 

^■* This was the nom deplume of Washington Irving. We are pleased to see the gifted. 
and ■warm-hearted Banim praising our gifted, gentle, and graceful i rving, the American, 
master of English prose. 



436 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

TO HIS BEOTHEE. 

London, April 6, 1825. 

My DEAii Michael : Our tales have not been announced in tlie 
usual manner, and I will tell you why. 

A certain literary gentleman, an Irishman, too, of undoubted 
talent, being aware of the nature of our volumes, started with a 
spirited publisher and got out notices, and it- became rather an 
amusing race between us. He would come occasionally, in 
the most friendly manner, to hope I was going on well. Pen 
against pen it was, as fast as they could gallop. Mounted on my 
grey goose quill, I have beaten him, as to time at all events. It was 
necessary to keep him in the dark by leaving our books unan- 
nounced. What may be the further result of our race is yet to be 
seen. There is quackery in all trades, from the boudoir to the 
pill-box. 

I purpose to be in Derry,^^ two hundred miles north of you, in a 
few weeks, and in some time after I will run down to Kilkenny to 
shake hands with you all, and to hear my poor mother call me her 
own '' graw Imon " ^^ once again. 

John Banim. 



TO HIS BROTHEE. 

CoLEEAiKE, May 28, 1825. 

Mt deae Michael : Lest you should be uneasy at my staying 
longer than I proposed, I write to say I am well and have only been 
delayed by the uninterrupted interest of my route from Belfast." 
I walked a great part of the way along the coast to this town ; hav- 
ing forwarded all my baggage, trusting to Him who feeds the spar- 
row and the raven for a meal and a bed. My adventures have been 
considerable in the way of living alone. I sometimes slept in a 
sheebeen house, sometimes in a farmer's house, and sometimes in a 
good inn ; and only I thought myself too ill-dressed a fellow, I might 
have shared the hospitality of a certain lady of high rank. 

But what scenery have I beheld ! grand, exquisite ! the Cause- 
way, from which I have just returned, the best j^art of it. You 
may look out for me towards the end of next week. One thing is 

IS Londonderry. is a. term of endearment. 

J'' It was on this journey that Banim collected the materials for his excellent historic 
story of " The Boyne Water." 



yokn Banim, 437 

certain, I will meet a hearty welcome at the old house where I first 

saw the light. 

Dear Michael, ever yours, 

John Baxim. 



TO HIS BEOTHEE. 

LoxDOis", November 6, 1825. 

My dear Michael : With this you will receive the first volume 
of ^' The Boyne "Water.*' I expect it to go to j^ress in a month from 
this day, so read it immediately, and return it as promptly as you 
can. 

Be very candid in your remarks ; because I ought to be made to 
know myself ; and don't you at least, through a false delicacy, let me 
lead myself astray ; every man's vanity blinds himself, to himself, of 
himself. 

This morning (Sunday), accompanying Ellen ^^ to Communion, 
I was delighted with the fair and beautiful sight of a crowd of other 
communicants of every rank and age clustering to the sanctuary. 
Some old Chelsea pensioners were there ; the lame, the blind, and the 
tottering ; and there were boys and girls of very tender age mixed 
with these infirm old men. Leaning down to minister the bread 
of comfort and of life to those stumblers on the grave's brink, and 
those young adventurers on a world of temptation, was a most reve- 
rend-looking priest, with long white hairs, who, to my knowledge, 
is one of the most zealous, virtuous, simple-minded men alive. 

My dear Michael, as I looked on, the recollection of our first Com- 
munion together side by side, and of the devotion and holy awe that 
filled my heart at the time ; and the remembrance of the aged and 
benevolent parish priest bending down to us with the Sacrament in 
his fingers came refreshingly to me, like the draught of a pure spring ; 
and a long train of innocent days and blissful times passed before 
me, with my thoughts recurrent to boyhood. 

Youi' devoted brother, 

JoHX Baxiai. 



LETTER TO GERALD GEIFFIX. 

Seyex Oaks, May 27, 1828. 
My dear Griffiis": I see you lead the way. Be assured that 
your last, of April 22, gives me heartfelt pleasure. My old harp of 

1" Mrs. Banim. 



43 8 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

a heart lias a string restored to it. I accept your invitation not to 
allow anything that may occur in letters between us to start a doubt 
in future of your friendship or character. Let me add my own 
covenant. TThen we meet, treat me more bluntly, off-handedly, and 
talkatively than you have done. I am now sure that an unlucky 
difficulty hitherto regulated (or rather disarranged) your social man- 
ner. However, 1 shall be happier with you if amongst your other re- 
cent changes you have acquired a knack of treating a friend differ- 
ently, and I close this toj)ic by protesting against your supposing 
that I here mean an iota which does not meet your eyes. 

I envy your life in poor Ireland. My health has been bad since I 
saw you ; I nearly lost the use of my limbs, but can now limp about 
on a stick. 

I write you a short and hasty letter. Till this day, since I had 
the great pleasure of receiving your last, I have been very busy, and 
ill enough into the bargain, and this morning I start with Mrs. 
Banim to make a long-promised visit to the Eev. James Dunn. 
Pray write soon, and believe me your affectionate friend, 

John Baxim, 



TO HIS BROTHEK. 

Boulogne, May 2, 1830. 
My dear Michael : I am now a paralyzed man, walking with 
much difficulty. I move slowly and cautiously, assisted by a stick 
and any good person's arm charitable enough to aid me. It is not 
to add to your trouble that I thus describe myself ; I only tell you 
to prepare you at home for the change. I look well, and my spirit 
is yet uncrippled. Go to my Mother's bedside as soon as you re- 
ceive this and say what you can for me. I think that she need not 
know that I am so lame. 

Your affectionate brother, 

Johx Baxim. 



to his brother. 

Boulogne, July 4, 1830. 

My dear Brother : You ^vill naturally ask yourself, '^ Why has 
not John written ? " Dear Michael, I could not, and I have no 



yohn Ba?iz7?i. 439 

explanation — only I conld not. And now I have not a single word 
to the purpose to say, although, after a fortnight's silence, I do 
write. The blow has not yet left me master of myself. A blow, 
indeed, it was. Your letter was suddenly thrust into my hand, and 
the color of the wax told me at a glance that my Mother had left 
me. I fell to the ground without having opened it, I anticipated 
the contents. 

You tell me to be tranquil. It is in rain. I never felt anguish be- 
fore. Yet it is true that the spiritualized lot of our Mother is a 
grand consolation : so also is the certainty that she died in the arms 
of those she loved, and who loved her. 

Kot a very long time shall elapse, if I live, till we meet in Kil- 
kenny. INIy wandering?, with God's leave, must end there. 

Ever, deal' Michael, your loving and devoted brother. 



TO HIS BBOTHEE. 

P-^?.:s. April 30, 1835. 

Deae M1CBL4.EL : "Wh^at I require is this : I ni" s: have a little 
garden — not overlooked, for with eyes on me I could not enjoy it. 
Herein paths to be, or afterwards so formed, as to enable three per- 
sons to walk abreast. If not paths, grass-plats formed out of its 
beds ; for with the help of your neck or arm, dear Michael, I want 
to try and put my limbs under me. This is the reason for my last, 
and to you, perhaps, strange, request ; but indeed there is a reason 
connected with my bodily and mental state for all the previous 
matters to be sought for in my contemplated abode, and which I 
have 50 minutely particularized. 

If possible, I wish my little house to have a sunny aspect : sun 
into aU possible windows every day that the glorious material god 
shines. I am a shivering being, and require and rejoice in his in- 
vigorating rays as does the drooping, sickly plant. 

If this little house could be within view of otir Nore stream, along 
the bank of which you and I have so often bounded, but along 
which I shall never botmd again, it would enhance my pleasure. 

I will begin to go home the 10th of next month (May). Travel- 
ling is to me a most expensive and tedious process. Every 



440 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

league of the road will take a shackle off me. My mind is fixed on 
a little sunny nook in Kilkenny, where I may set myself down and 
die easily, or live a little longer as happily as I can. 
Until we meet, believe me, my dear Michael, 

Your most affectionate brother, 

JoHi^ Banim. 



THOMAS DAVIS, 

" I remember with what startled enthusiasm I would arise from reading Davis's 
'Poems '; and it would seem to me that before my young eyes I saw the dash of 
the Brigade at Fontenoy ; it would seem to me as if my young ears were filled 
with the shout that resounded at the Yellow Ford and Benburb — the war-cry of 
the Red Hand — as the English hosts were swept away, and, like snow under the 
beams of the rising sun, melted before the Irish onset." — V. Rev. Father 
Burke, O.P. 

" It is impossible to exaggerate this man's genius, acquirements, and extraor- 
dinary talents, or his brilliant services to Ireland. He has^ I will venture to say, 
given a new impulse to the minds of Ireland, invested Irish literature with a 
classic dignity, and adorned it with a classic grace, bringing to its cultivation 
and development a mind imbued with philosophy, history, science, art, poetry, 
and warmed by a heart charged with an enthusiastic love of freedom." — Mooney. 

THOMAS DAVIS was born in the year 1814, in the famous little 
town of Mallow/ on the Blackwater, in the county of Cork. 

^'Amongst the hills of Munster," writes John Mitchel, ^*on the 
banks of Ireland's most beanteons river, the Avondheu — Spencer's 
Auinduf — and amidst a simple peoj^le who yet retained most of the 
venerable usages of the olden time — their wakes and funeral caoines, 
their wedding merrymakings and simple hospitality, with a hundred 
thousand welcomes — ^lie imbibed that passionate and deep love, not 
for the people only, but for the very soil, rocks, woods, waters, and 
skies of his native land, whicb gives to his writings, both in prose 
and poetry, their chief value and charm. " ^ 

After a good preliminary training, Davis entered Trinity College, 
Dublin. As a student, he was a quiet, hard worker, who did not 
confine himself merely to the text-books of the university. '^ There- 
fore," says Mitch el, '^he was not a dull, plodding blockhead, 'pre- 
mium-man. ' He came through the course creditably enough, but 
without distinction." 

Slowly his rich intellect developed. His latent abilities were un- 
known even to himself. He spent his fresh, young days in storing 
his mind and training his heart, and when he devoted both to the 

1 Mallow ie the birthplace of the venerable Archbishop Purcell, the eminent historian, 
Dr. E. B. O'Callaghan. and several other distinguished men. 
' " introduction to the ' Poems ' of Davis." 

441 



442 TJic Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

lofty serrice of his country, the world beheld in him a full man — a 
true, warm-hearted Irishman of splendid gifts. 

'' During his college course/'' writes Wallis, his fi'iend and com- 
rade, ''and for some years after, while he was very generally hked, 
he had. unless j^erhaps with some who knew him intimately, but a 
moderate reputation of any kind. In his twenty-fifth year, as I re- 
member — in the spring of 1839 — he first began to break out of this. 
His opinions began to have weight, and his character and infltience 
to unfold themselves in a variety of ways. In the following year he 
entered political life. 

••' The outbreak of his poetical power began in this wise : In the 
autumn of 18-12, taking an active part in the estabhshment of a 
new popular journal — the Nation — which was intended to advance 
the cause of nationahty by all the aids which literary as well as poH- 
tical talent could bring to its adyocacy, Davis, and the friends asso- 
ciated with him, found that while their corps in other respects was 
suflB-ciently complete, they had but scanty promise of support in the 
poetical department. Davis and his companions resolved, in default 
of other aids, to write the poetry themselves. They did so ; they 
surprised themselves, and everybody else. 

•'The rapidity and thiiUing power with which, from the time that 
he got full access to the public ear, Davis developed his energies as 
statesman, political writer, and poet excited the surprise and admira- 
tion even of those who knew him best, and won the respect of num- 
bers who, from political or personal prejudices, had been originally 
most unwilling to admit his worth. 

'' Xo power is so overwhelming, no energy so untiring, noenthtisi- 
asm so indomitable as that which slumbers for years, unconscious 
and unsuspected, until the character is completely formed, and then 
bursts at once into Hght and life when the time for action is come. "' 

Equal to any emergency was the genius of Davis. The labors of 
a quarter of a century he crushed into three short years. ''It is 
not detractins:,** writes John flitch el, "' from anv man's iusl claims 
to assert, what all admit, that he, more than any one man, insj^ired, 
created, and moulded the strong national feehng that possessed the 
Ii'ish people in 1S13, made O'Connell a true uncrowned king, 

•' Placed the strength of all the land 
Like a falchion in his hand. ' " 

In the following year Davis gave the greater portion of his best 



Thomas Davis. 443 

poems to the world. Unhappily, his Tvdse and patriotic genius was 
to be txx) soon dimmed in death. He died, after a brief illness, at 
his mother's residence, Dublin, on the 16th of September, 1845. He 
was only in his thirty-first year. His grave is in Mount Jerome 
Cemetery, and there rests all that is mortal of '* the most danger- 
ous foe Enghsh dominion in Ireland has had in otu- generation." ^ 

What Thomas Davis left behind him is but a fragment of the 
man's real greatness. His ^' Poems" and •'•' Literary and Historical 
Essays " are pubhshed in one neat volume of about five htmdred 
pages. Until three years before his death he never wrote a line of 
poetry. Yet his glorious quill dashed off poems that will endure 
as long as the Enghsh language — poems that will be read and 
admired as long as there is a man of the Irish race ahve. His 
poetry was but the expression of his own manly nature, warm heait, 
and lofty character. It came from the heart. It finds its way to 
the heart. It has the true ling which finds an echo in every 
soul that can admire the brave and the beautiful. 

Speaking of the poetry and music of Ireland, Father Burke, the 
wonderfully eloquent Dominican, justly remarks : ••' Ahand less un- 
worthy came, a hand less unworthy than Thomas Moore's, a hand more 
loyal and n-ue than even his was, when in Ireland's lays appeared 
the inmiortal Thomas Davis. He and the men upon whom we built 
up OUT hopes for Young Ireland — he, with them, seized the sad, 
silent hari3 of Erin and sent forth another thrill in the invitation to 
the men of the Xorth to join hands with their Cathohc brethren — 
to the men of the South to remember the ancient glories of "Brian 
the Brave.' To the men of Connaught he seemed to call forth 
Eoderick O'Conor from his grave at Clonmacnoise. He raUied Ire- 
land in that year so memorable for its hopes and for the bhghting of 
those hoi>es. He and the men of the Xatiou did what this world 
has never seen in the same space of time, by the sheer power of Iiish 
srenius, bv the sheer strens^th of Youdst Ireland's intellect: the 
Station of '43 created a national poetry, a national hterature, which 
no other country can equal. Under the magic voices and pens of 
these men, every ancient glory stood forth again. I remember it well ; 
I was but a boy at the time, but I remember with what startled 
enthtisiasm I would arise from reading • Davis's Poems ' ; and it 
would seem to me that before my yoting eyes I saw the dash of the 
Brigade at Eontenoy ; it would seem to me as if my young ears were 

3 John Mitchel. 



444 ^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

filled with the shout that resounded at the Yellow Ford and Ben- 
burb — the war-cry of the Eed Hand — as the EngHsh hosts were 
swept away, and, like snow under the beams of the rising sun, 
melted before the Irish onset. The dream of the poet, the aspi- 
ration of the true Irish heart, is yet unfulfilled. But remember 
that there is something sacred in the poet's dream. The inspi- 
ration of genius is second only to the inspiration of religion. There 
is something sacred and infallible, with all our human fallibility, in 
the hope of a nation that has never allowed the hope of freedom to 
be extinguished." * 

O'Connell mourned deeply the loss of Davis. ^^ I cannot expect," 
wrote the aged Liberator, ^' to look upon his like again, or to see 
the place he has left vacant adequately filled up." '' 



SELECTIONS FROM THE WORKS OF DAVIS. 

THE BRIDE OF MALLOW. 

'TwAS dying they thought her. 
And kindly they brought her. 
To the banks of Black water, 

Where her forefathers lie. 
'Twas the place of her childhood, 
And they hoped that its wild wood 
And air soft and mild would 

Soothe her spirit to die. 

But she met on its border 
A lad who ador'd her — 
Xo rich man nor lord, or 

A coward or slave ; 
But one who had worn 
A green coat, and borne 
A pike from Sliab Mourne 

With the patriots brave. 

Oh ! the banks of the stream are 

Than emeralds greener ; 

And how should they wean her 

•* " Lecture on the National Music of Ireland." 
^ Nun of Kenmare's '" Life of Daniel O'Connell. 



Thomas Davis. 445 

From loving the earth. 
While the song-birds so sweet, 
And the waves at their feet. 
And each young pair they meet. 

Are all flushing with mirth. 

And she listed his talk. 
And he shar'd in her walk. 
And how could she baulk 

One so gallant and true ? 
But why tell the rest ? 
Her love she coniest. 
And sank on his breast 

Like the eventide dew. 

Ah ! now her cheek glows 
With the tint of the rose, 
And her healthful blood flows 

Just as fresh as the stream. 
And her eye flashes bright. 
And her footstep is light, 
And sickness and blight 

Fled away like a dream. 

And soon by his side 
She kneels a sweet bride. 
In maidenly pride 

And maidenly fears. 
And their children were fair, 
And their home knew no care. 
Save that all homesteads were 

I^ot as happy as theirs. 



love's LOKGIisGS. 

To the conqueror his crowning, 
First freedom to the slave, 

And air unto the drowning 
Sunk in the ocean's wave. 



44^ The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

And succor to the faithful 
Who fight, their flag above. 

Are sweet but far less gi'ateful 
Than were my lady's love. 

I know I am not worthv 

Of one so young and bright, 
And yet I would do for thee 

Far more than others might. 
I cannot give you pomp or gold 

If you should be my wife, 
But I can give you love untold, 

And true in death or life, 

Methinks that there are passions 

Within that heaving breast 
To scorn their heartless fashions, 

And wed whom you love best, 
^lethinks you would be prouder 

As the struggling j^atriot's bride, 
Than if rank vour home should crowd, or 

Cold riches round vou a'lide. 

Oh I the watcher longs for morning, 

And the infant cries for hght. 
And the saint for heaven's warning, 

And the vanquished pray for might ; 
But their prayer, when lowest kneeling. 

And their suppliance most true, 
Are cold to the appealing 

Of this longing heart to you. 



MY LAXD. 



She is a rich and rare land ; 
Oh I she's a fresh and fair land ; 
She is a dear and rare land — 
This native land of mine. 



Thomas Davis. 447 

Xo men than hers are braver ; 
Her women's hearts ne'er waver ; 
rd freely die to save her. 
And think my lot divine. 

She's not a dnll or cold land ; 
Xo I she's a warm and bold land. 
Oh I she's a true and old land — 
This native land of mine. 

Could beauty ever guard her. 
And viitue still reward her, 
Xo foe would cross her border, 
Xo friend within it pine. 

Oh I she's a fresh and fair land ; 
Oh I she's a true and rare land; 
Yes I she's a rare and fair land-^ 
This native land of mine. 



A XATIOX OXCE AGAIX. 

Whex boyhood's fire was in my blood, 

I read of ancient freemen. 
For Greece and Eome who bravely stood, 

Tliree Itundred men and three men ! 
And then I prayed I yet might see 

Our fetters rent in twain. 
And Ireland, long a province, be 

A nation once again. 

And from that time, through wildest woe. 

That hope has shone a far light ; 
Xor could love's brightest summer glow 

Otitshine that solemn starlight. 
It seemed to watch above my head 

In forum, field, and fane ; 
Its angel voice sang round my bed : 

^' A nation once again.'^ 



448 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

It whispered, too. that ''freedom's ark" 

And service, high and holv, 
Would be profan'd bv feehngs dark 

And passions vain or lowly ; 
For fi-eedom comes from God's right hand, 

And needs a godly train ; 
And righteous men m.nst make our land — 

A nation once again. 

So, as I grew fi*om boy to man, 

I bent me to that bidding, 
My spirit of each selfish plan 

And cruel passion ridding ; 
For thtis I hoped some day to aid — 

Oh I can such hope be rain ? — 
When my dear country should be made 

A nation once again. 



FOXTEXOT. 

Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the Enghsh column lailed, 
And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in vain assail'd; 
For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, 
And well they swej^t the English ranks and Dutch auxihai'y. 
As Tainly through De Barri's Wood the British soldiers btu'st, 
The French artilleiy drove them back diminished and dispersed. 
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye. 
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride ! 
And mustering came his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide. 

Six thousand Enghsh veterans in stately column tread. 

Their cannon blaze in fi-ont and flank. Lord Hay is at their 

head. 
Steady they step adown the slope, steady they chmb the hill ; 
Steady they load, steady they fii-e, moving right onward still. 
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace-blast, 
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering 

fast. 



Thomas Davis. 449 

And on the open plain above tliey rose and kept their course, 
With ready fire and grim resolve that mocked at hostile force. 
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks, 
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean- 
banks. 

More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round ; 
As stubble to the lava-tide, French squadrons strew the ground ; 
Bombshell and grape and round-shot, still on they marched and 

fired — 
Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. 
** Push on, my Household Cavalry ! " King Louis madly cried ; 
To death they rush, but rude their shock — not unrevenged they 

died. 
On through the camp the column trod ; King Louis turns his 

reign. 
''Kot yet, my liege,'' Saxe interposed ; ^^the Irish troops remain." 
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, 
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true. 

*' Lord Clare," he says, " you have your wish ; there are your Saxon 
foes ! " 
The marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes ! 
How fierce the look the exiles wear, who're wont to be so gay. 
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day — 
The Treaty broken ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could dry. 
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's part- 
ing cry. 
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country over- 
thrown — 
Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him alone. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere. 
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were. 

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy as, halting, he commands, 
*' Fix bay'nets ; charge ! " Like mountain storm rush on these 

fiery bands I 
Thin is the English column now and faint their volleys grow. 
Yet, must'ring all the strength they have, they make a gallant 

show. 



r 



450 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle-wind, 
Their bayonets the breaker's foam, like rocks the men behind. 
One volley crashes from their line, when through the surging 

smoke, 
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish 

broke. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza ! 
^' Kevenge ! remember Limerick ! dash down the Saesanach ! " 

Like lions leaping at a fold when mad with hunger's pang, 
Right up against the EngHsh line the Irish exiles sprang. 
Bright was their steel ; 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled with 

gore. 
Through shattered ranks and severed files and trampled flags they 

tore ; 
The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, 

staggered, fled — 
The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead. 
Across the plain and far away passed on that hideous wrack, 
While cavalier and f antassin dash in upon the track. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, 
With bloody plumes the Irish stand — the field is fought and won ! 



CLARE S DEAGOO]!fS. 

When, on Ramillies' bloody field. 

The bafQed French were forced to yield. 

The victor Saxon backward reeled 

Before the charge of Clare's Dragoons. 
The flags we conquered in that fray 
Look lone in Ypres' choir they say ; 
We'll win them, company, to-day. 

Or bravely die like Clare's Dragoons. 

Chorus. 

Viva la for Ireland's wrong ! 

Viva la for Ireland's right ! 

Viva la in battled throng 

For a Spanish steed, and sabre bright ! 



Thomas Davis, 45 1 

The brave old lord died near the fight. 
But for each drop lie lost that night 
A Saxon cavalier shall bite 

The dust before Lord Clare's Dragoons; 
For never when our sjours were set, 
And never when our sabres met, 
Could we the Saxon soldiers get 

To stand the shock of Clare's Dragoons. 

Cliorus. 

Viva la the New Brigade ! 

Viva la the old one, too ! 

Viva la the rose shall fade 

And the Shamrock shine forever new ! 

Another Clare is here to lead, 
The worthy son of such a breed ; 
The French expect some famous deed 

When Clare leads on his bold Dragoons. 
Our colonel comes from Brian's race. 
His wounds are in his breast and face, 
The gap of danger is still his place. 

The foremost of his bold dragoons. 

Chorus, 

Viva la the New Brigade ! 

Viva la the old one, too ! 

Viva la the rose shall fade 

And the shamrock shine for ever new I 

There's not a man in squadron here 
Was ever known to flinch or fear. 
Though first in charge and last in rear 

Has ever been Lord Clare's Dragoons. 
But see, we'll soon have work to do. 
To shame our boasts or prove them true. 
For hither comes the English crew 

To sweep away Lord Clare's Dragoons. 



452 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

Cliorus. 

Yiva la for Ireland's wrong ! 

Yiva la for Ireland's right ! 

Yiva la in battled throng 

For a Spanish steed and sabre bright ! 

comrades ! think how Ireland pines 
Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines. 
Her dearest hope the ordered lines. 

And bursting charge of Clare's Dragoons. 
Then fling your Green Flag to the sky, 
Be Limerick your battle-cry, 
And charge till blood floats fetlock high 

Around the track of Clare's Dragoons. 

Cliorus. 

Yiva la the Xew Brigade ! 

Yiva la the old one, too I 

Yiva la the rose shall fade 

And the Shamrock shine for ever new ! 



XATIOXALITY. 

A i^ATiox's Toice, a nation's voice. 

It is a solemn thing I 
It bids the bondage-sick rejoice, 

'Tis stronger than a king. 
'Tis like the light of many stars. 

The sound of many waves, 
"Which brightly look through ^irison-bars. 

And sweetly sound in caves. 
Yet is it noblest, godliest known 

TYhen righteous triumph swells its tone. 

A nation's flag, a nation's flag, 

If wickedlv unrolled, 
May foes in adverse battle drag 

Its every fold from fold I 



Thomas Davis, 453 

But in the cause of Liberty 

Guard it 'gainst earth and hell, 
G-uard it till death or yictory — 

Look you you guard it well ! 
!N"o saint or king has tomb so proud 

As he whose flag becomes his shroud. 

A nation's right, a nation's right — 

God gave it, and gave, too, 
A nation's sword, a nation's might, 

Danger to guard it through. 
'Tis freedom from a foreign yoke, 

'Tis just and equal laws, 
Which deal unto the humblest folk 

As in a noble's cause. 
On nations fixed in right and truth 

God would bestow eternal vouth. 

%i ^ 

May Ireland's voice be ever heard. 

Amid the world's applause ! 
And never be her flag-stafl stirred. 

But in an honest cause ! 
May freedom be her every breath 

Be justice ever dear. 
And never an ennobled death 

May son of Ireland fear ! 
So the Lord God will ever smile, 

With guardian grace, upon our Isle. 



OH 1 FOE, A STEED. 

Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and a blazing scimitar. 
To hunt from beauteous Italy the Austrian's red hussar ; 
To mock their boasts. 
And strew their hosts, 
And scatter their flags afar. 



454 1^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and dear Poland gathered round,. 
To smite her circle of savage foes, and smash them on the ground ; 

Nor hold my hand 

While on the land 

A foreign foe was found. 

Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and a rifle that never failed. 
And a tribe of terrible prairie men, by desperate valor mailed. 

Till ^'^ stripes and stars," 

And Russian czars. 

Before the Eed Indian quailed. 

Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, on the plains of Hindostan, 
And a hundred thousand cavaliers, to charge like a single man. 

Till our shirts were red. 

And the English fled 

Like a cowardly caravan. 

Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, with the Greeks at Marathon, 
Or a place in the Switzer phalanx when the Morat men swept on. 

Like a pine-clad hill 

By an earthquake's will 

Hurl'd the valleys upon. 

Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, when Brian smote down the Dane, 
Or a place beside great Hugh O'Neill when Bagenal the bold was slain. 
Or a waving crest 
And a lance in rest. 
With Bi'uce upon Bannoch jilain. 

Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, on the Currach of Cilldar, 
And Irish squadrons skilled to do, as they are ready to dare, 

A hundred yards. 

And Holland's guards 

Drawn up to engage me there. 

Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and any good cause at all. 
Or else, if you will, a field on foot, or guarding a leaguered wall 

For freedom's right ; 

In flushing fight 

To conquer, if then to fall. 



Thomas Davis. 455 

THE GEEEiT ABOVE THE RED. 

Full often, when our fathers saw the Red above the G-reen, 
They rose, in rude but fierce array, with sabre, pike, and skian. 
And over many a noble town and many a field of dead 
They proudly set the Irish G-reen above the English Red. 

But in the end throughout the land the shameful sight was seen. 
The English Red in triumph high above the Irish Green ; 
But well they died, in breach and field, who, as their spirits fled. 
Still saw the G-reen maintain its place above the English Red. 

And they who saw, in after times, the Red above the Green 
Were withered as the grass that dies beneath the forest screen ; 
Yet often by this healthy hope their sinking hearts were fed. 
That in some day to come the Green should flutter o'er the Red. 

Sure, 'twas for this Lord Edward died, and Wolfe Tone sunk 

serene — 
Because they could not bear to leave the Red above the Green ; 
And 'twas for this that Owen fought and Sarsfield nobly bled — 
Because their eyes were hot to see the Green above the Red. 

So, when the strife began again, our darling Irish Green 
Was down upon the earth, while high the English Red was seen ; 
Yet still we held our fearless course, for something in us said : 
^* Before the strife is o'er you'll see the Green above the Red." 

And 'tis for this we think and toil, and knowledge strive to 

glean — 
That we may pull the English Red below the Irish Green, 
And leave our sons sweet liberty, and smiling plenty spread 
Above the land, once dark with blood — the Oreen above the Red! 

The jealous English tyrant now has bann'd the Irish Green, 
And forced us to conceal it like a something foul and mean ; 
But yet, by Heaven ! he'll sooner raise his victims from the dead 
Than force our hearts to leave the Green and cotton to the Red. 

We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and blesses those who lean 
On their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly king or queen ; 
And, freely as we lift our hands, we vow our blood to shed 
Once and for evermore to raise the Green above the Red ! 



45 6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

THE PEXAL DAYS. 

Oh ! weep those days, the penal days, 

When Ireland hojielessly complained ; 
Oh ! weep those days, the penal days. 
When godless persecution reigned ; 

When, year by year. 

For serf and j)eer 
Fresh cruelties were made by law. 

And, filled with hate. 

Our Senate sate 
To weld anew each fetter's flaw. 
Oh ! weep those days, those penal days ; 
Their mem'ry still on Ireland weighs. 

They bribed the flock, they bribed the son, 

To sell the priest and rob the sire ; 
Their dogs were taught alike to run 
Upon the scent of wolf and friar. 

Among the poor, 

Or on the moor. 
Were hid the pious and the true, 

While traitor knave 

And recreant slave 
Had riches, rank, and retinue. 
And, exiled in those joenal days, 
Our banners over Europe blaze. 

A stranger held the land and tower 

Of many a noble fugitive ; 
1S.0 Catholic lord had lordly power, 
The i^easant scarce had leave to live : 

Above his head 

A ruined shed, 
No tenure but a tyrant's will ; 

Forbid to plead. 

Forbid to read, 
Disarm'd, disfranchis'd, imbecile— 
What wonder if your step betrays 
The freedom born in j^enal days ? 



Thomas Davis. 457 

They're gone, they're gone, those penal days. 

All creeds are equal in our isle ; 
Then grant, Lord ! thy plenteous grace 
Our ancient feuds to reconcile. 

Let all atone 

For blood and groan. 
For dark revenge and open wrong ; 

Let all unite 

For Ireland's right. 
And drown our griefs in freedom's song, 
Till time shall veil in twilight's haze 
The memory of those penal days. 



THE EIGHT ROAD. 

Let the feeble-hearted pine, 
Let the sickly spirit whine. 
But to work and win be thine, 

While you've life. 
God smiles upon the bold. 
So when your flag's unroll'd 
Bear it bravely till you're cold 

In the strife. 

If to rank or fame you soar, 
Out your spirit frankly pour. 
Men will serve you and adore 

Like a king. 
Woo your girl with honest pride 
Till you've won her for your bride. 
Then to her through time and tide 

Ever cling. 

Never under wrongs despair; 
Labor long and everywhere. 
Link your countrymen, j^repare. 

And strike home. 
Thus have great men ever wrought. 
Thus must greatness still be sought. 
Thus labor'd, lov'd, and fought 

Greece and Eome. 



458 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 



TIPPEKARY. 



Let Britain boast her British hosts. 
About them all right little care we ; 

Not British seas nor British coasts 
Can match the man of Tipperary 



r 



Tall is his form, his heart is warm, 

His sirit light as any fairy ; 
His wTath is fearful as the storm 

That sweeps the hills of Tipperary ! 

Lead him to fight for native land, 
His is no courage cold and wary ; 

The troops live not on earth would stand 
The headlong charge of Tipperary ' 

Yet meet him in his cabin rude, 

Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary, 

You'd swear they knew no other mood 
But mirth and love in Tipperary ! 

You're free to share his scanty meal. 
His plighted word he'll never vary ; 

In vain they tried with gold and steel 
To shake the faith of Tipperary ! 

Soft is his cuilin's sunny eye, 
Her mien is mild, her step is airy, 

Her heart is fond, her soul is high ; 
Oh ! she's the pride of Tipperary. 

Let Britain, too, her banner brag, 

We'll lift the G-reen more proud and airy ; 

Be mine the lot to bear that flag. 
And head the men of Tipperary. 

Though Britain boasts her British hosts, 
About them all right little care we ; 

Give us, to guard our native coasts, 
The matchless men of Tipperary ! 



Thomas Davis. 459 

STUDY. 

pProm " Literary and Historical Essays," by T. Davis.] 

Beside a library, how poor are all the other greatest deeds of 
men — his constitution, brisfade, factory, man-of-war, cathedral — 
how poor are all niii-acles in comjmrison I Look at that wall of 
motley caKskin, open those slijDs of inked rags, who woidd fancy 
them as valuable as the rows of stamped cloth in a warehouse ? 
Yet Aladdin's lamp was a child's kaleidoscope in comparison. 
There the thoughts and deeds of the most efficient men durinof 
thi*ee thousand years are accumulated, and every one who will learn 
a few conventional signs — twenty-six (magic) letters — can pass at 
pleasure fi'om Plato to Xapoleon, from Argonauts to tlie Affghans, 
from the woven mathematics of La Place to the mythology of 
Egyi^t, and the lyrics of Burns. 

Young reader, pause steadily and look at this fact till it blaze 
before you ; look till your imagination summons ujd even the few 
acts and thoughts named in that last sentence, and when these 
visions, from the Greek pirate to the fiery-eyed Scotchman, have be- 
gun to dim, solemnly resolve to use these glorious opportunities, as 
one whose breast has been sobbing at the far sight of a mountain 
resolves to climb it, and already strains and exults in his purposed 
toil. 

Throughout the countiy, at this moment, thousands are constilt- 
ing how to obtain and use books. We feel i^ainfully anxious that 
this noble purj^ose should be well directed. It is j^ossible that these 
sanguine young men who are wildly pressing for knowledge may 
gi'ow weary or be misled — to their own and Ireland's injury. AVe 
intend, therefore, to put down a few hints and warnings for them. 
Unless they themselves ponder and discuss these hints and warnings, 
they will be useless, nay, worse than useless. 

On the selection and piu'chase of books it is hard to say what is 
•Qseful without going into detail. Carlyle says that a library is the 
true university of our days, where every sort of knowledge is brought 
together to be studied ; but the student needs guides in the library 
as much as in the university. He does not need rules nor rulers, 
but hght and classification. Let a boy loose in a library, and if he 
have years of leisure and a creative spirit, he will come out a master- 
mind. If he have the leisure without the original spring, he will 
become a book-worm, a useful help, perhaps, to his neighbors, but 



460 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

himself a very feeble and poor creature. For one man who gains 
weapons from idle reading we koow twenty who lose their simpli- 
city without getting strength, and purchase cold recollections of 
other men's thoughts by the sacrifice of nature. 

Just as men are bewildered and lost for want of guides in a large 
library, so are others from an equal want of direction in the pur- 
chase of a small one. ^e know from bitter experience how much 
money it costs a young man to get together a sufi&cient library. 
Still more hard we should think it for a club of Youns: men to do 
so. But worse than the loss of money are the weariness from read- 
ing dull and shallow books, the coiTuption from reading vicious, 
extravagant, and confused books, and the waste of time and jDatience 
from reading idle and impertinent books. The remedy is not by 
saying : ''This book you shall read, and this other you shall not 
read under penalty,*' btit by inducing students to regard their self- 
edtication solemnly, by giving them information on the classification 
of books, and by setting them to judge authors vigorously, and for 
themselves. 

Booksellers, especially in small towns, exercise no small influence 
in the choice of books, yet they are generally unfit to do so. They 
are like agents for the sale of patent medicines, knowing the price 
but not the ingredients, nor the comparative worth of their goods, 
yet pufi^ng them for the commission's sake. 

If some competent person would wi'ite a book on books, he would 
do the world a great favor ; but he had need be a man of caution, 
above political bias or ^lersonal motive, and indifferent to the out- 
cries of party. 

One of the first mistakes a young, ardent student falls into is that 
he can master all knowledge. The desire for universal attainment 
is natural and glorious : but he who feels it is in danger of huny- 
ing over a multitude of books, and confusing himself into the belief 
that he is about to know everything because he has skimmed many 
things. 

Another evil is apt to grow from this. A young man Avho gets a 
name for a great variety of knowledge is often ashamed to a2'»pear 
ignorant of what he does not know. He is a^^pealed to as an au- 
thoritv, and instead of maufullv and wiselv avowing; his isfnorance, 
he harangues from the title page, or skilfully parades the opinions 
of other men as if they were his own observations. 

Looking through books in order to talk of them is one of the 



TJiomas Davis. 461 

worst and commonest yices. It is an acted lie. a device to conceal 
laziness and ignorance, or to compensate for want of wit : a stupid 
device, too, for it is soon found out, the employer of it gets the 
character of being a literary cheat : he is tli ought a pretender, even 
when well informed, and a plagiarist when most original. 

Heading to consume time is an honest but weak emplovment. It 
is a positive disease with multitudes of people. They crouch in 
comers, going over novels and biograpliies at the rate of two volumes 
a day, when they would have been far better employed in digging or 
playing shuttle-cock. Still it is hard to distinguish between this 
long looking through books and the voracity of a ctirious and 
powei'ful mind gathering stores which it will afterwards arrange 
and use. 

The reader needs not formally criticise and review every book, 
still less need he pause on every sentence and word till the fuU 
meaning of it stands before him. 

But he must often do this : He must analyze as well as enjoy. 
He must consider the elements as well as the argtiments of a book, 
just as, long dwelling on a landscape, he will begin to know the 
trees and rocks, the sun-flooded hollow and the cloud-crowned toji, 
which go to make the scene : or, to tise a more illustrative thotight, 
as one, long listening to the noise on a summer day, comes to sej^a- 
rate and mark the bleat of the lamb, the hoarse caw of the crow, 
the song of the thrush, the buzz of the bee, and the tinkle of the 
brook. 

Doing this deliberately is an evil to the mind, whether the subject 
be nature or books. The evil is not because the act is one of analy- 
sis, though that has been said. It is proof of higher power to com- 
bine new ideas out of what is before you, or to notice combinations 
not at first obvious, than to distinguish and separate. The latter 
tends to logic, which is ota- humblest exercise of mind, the for- 
mer to creation, which is our hisrhest. Yet analvsis is not an 
unhealthy act of mind, nor the j^rocess we have described always 
analytical. 

The evil of deliberate criticism is that it generates scepticism. 
Of cotirse we do not mean religious, btit general, scepticism. The 
process goes on till one sees only stratification in the slope, gases in 
the stream, cunning tissues in the face, associations in the mind, 
an astronomical machine in the sky. A more miserable state of 
soul no mortal ever suffered than this. But an earnest man, living 



462 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

and loTing yigorously, is in little danger of this condition, nor does 
it last lons^ with anv man of strong^ character. 

Another evil, confined chiefiv to men who write or talk for effect, 
is that they become S2:)ies (as Emerson calls them) on nature. They 
do not wonder at, love, or hate what they see. All books and men 
are arsenals to be used, or, more properly, stores to be plnndered by 
them. But then* punishment is sharp. They lore insight into the 
godlier qualities, they love the sight of sympathy, and become con- 
scious actors of a poor faix-e. 

Happiest is he who judges and knows books and natttre and men 
(liimself included) spontaneously or from early training, whose feel- 
ings are assessors with his intellect, and who is thoroughly in ear- 
nest. An actor or a spy is weak as well as wi'etched : yet it may be 
needful for him who was blinded by the low principles, the tasteless 
rules, and the stupid habits of his family and teachers to face this 
danger, deliberately to analyze his own and others* nature, dehbe- 
rately to study how faculties are acquired and results produced, and 
to cure himself of blindness and deafness and dumbness, and be- 
come a man observant and skilful. He will stiffer much and run 
o-reat dansrer. but if he sfo tlirousfh this faithfullv and then flinsr 
himself into action and undertake responsibility, he shall be great 
and happy. 



DANIEL a CONN ELL. 

*' O'Connell had not merely to arouse a people— he had, first of all to create a 
people. Having created a people, he had to shape their iastiacts — to direct and 
rule them. Hannibal is esteemed the greatest of generals, not because he gained 
victories, but because he made an army. O'Connell, for the same reason, must 
be considered among the first of legislators — not because he won triumphs,, but 
because he made a people.'" — Giles. 

" Centuries of patient endurance brought, at length, the dawn of a better day. 
G-od's hour came, and it brought with it Ireland's greatest son, Daniel O'Connell." 
— V. Rev. Father Bueke, O.P. 

" Grod, the Church, and his countiy — such were the great ends of all his actions." 
— Father Yentuiia. 

DAXIEL O'COXXELL, one of tlie most remarkable men and 
greatest political geniuses in the history of tlie woiid^ was 
born on the 6tli of Angust, 1775, at a ^^lace called Carhen, near the 
little town of Caliirciveen, county of Kerry. His father, Morgan 
O'Connell, belonged to an ancient Irish, family. His mother, Kate 
O'Mullane, was a lady of rare beauty of character. Her illustrious 
son, in after years, often spoke of her. *•' I am,"' he wrote in 1841, 
'^the son of a sainted mother, who watched over my childhood with 
the most faithful care. She was of a high order of intellect, and 
what little I possess was bequeathed me by her. I may, in fact, say 
without Tanity that the superior situation in which I am j^laced by 
my cotmtrymen has been owing to her. Her last breath was passed, 
I thank Heaven, in calling down blessings on my head ; and I valued 
her blessing since. In the ]3erils and dangers to which I have been 
exposed through life I have regarded her blessing as an angel's 
shield over me ; and as it has been my protection in this life, I look 
forward to it also as one of the means of obtaining hereafter a hap- 
piness greater than any this world can give." ^ 

Daniel's first schoolmaster was poor old David Mahony. We are 
told that he kindly took the little fellow on his knee, and in the 
short space of an hour and a half the future ^"Liberator " — then in 

^ Letter in the Belfast Vindicator, quoted br the Nun of Kenmare in her " Life of Daniel 
O'ConneU." 

463 



464 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

his fourth year — learned the whole alphabet perfectly and per- 
manently/ 

As a boy, he liked ballads, and was very ambitious. He read much 
and studied hard. His uncle ^ took the Diiblin Magazme, which 
contained sketches and pictures of distingaished men. " I won- 
der," he would say to himself, '' will my picture ever appear in 
this ? " One day, when he was about nine years of age, the family 
were discussing the merits of Burke and Grattan. The lad looked 
grave and said nothing. '* What are you thinking of ? " said a lady. 
"I'll make a stir in the world yet !" was the characteristic reply. 

At the age of thirteen, young O'Connell was sent for a time to a 
Catholic school ^ near the Cove of Cork, or, as it is now called, Queens- 
town, and a year or two later he proceeded to the Continent, where 
he studied successively at Louvain, St. Omer, and Douai. 

He was driven from France by the barbarities of the French Re- 
volution, and after about three years of assiduous law study in 
London, he was called to the Irish bar in that sadly memorable 
year, 1798. 

When thus fairly entered upon the world's wide stage, he had 
strong reasons for avoiding politics. No lawyer could hope to rise in 
his profession unless willing to be the parasite and slave of the Go- 
vernment. In Ireland it was even very dangerous to be found in op- 
position to the Government. Despite all this, O'Connell could not 
be silent when he beheld the legislative independence of his country 
about to be annihilated. Like a brave, honest man, he indignantly 
protested against the abhorred Union. His first public speech was 
a jorotest against it. This was delivered in January, 1800, in the 
Hall of the Royal Exchange, Dublin. This first speech contained 
the principles of his whole political life. "It is a curious thing 
enough," said he, afterwards, "that all the principles of my subse- 
quent political life are contained in my very first speech.^ 

In 1802 O'Connell married his cousin. Miss Mary O'Connell, the 
daughter of a physician in Tralee. She proved a most devoted 
wife. 



2 "Life of O'Connell," by his son, John O'Connell. 

3 " Daniel O'Connell was adopted by his Uncle Maurice, the owner of Derrynane, from 
whom he inherited that celebrated place." — " Centenary Life of O'Connell," by Rev. 
John O'Rourke, P.P., M.R.I.A. 

^ This was the first Catholic school publicly opened after the repeal of the penal law 
which forbade Catholics to educate their children. 
^ W. J. ONeill Daunt, " Personal Recollections of O'Connell," vol. ii. 



Dafiiel GComiell. 465 

His success in his profession is thus translared into pounds bv 

liimself. " The first year I was at the bar,*' he remarked to Mr. 

Daunt, " I made £08 ; the second year about £150 ; the third 

year £'200 ; the fotirth year about 300 guineas. I then advanced 

mpidly, and the last year of my practice I got £9,0<X), although I 

lost one term." ' 

■ 

The story of O'ConneU's life as a public man is the history of Ire- 
land for over a third of a century. It cannot be told here; and, 
indeed, it is too well known to need repetition. When the Catho- 
lics of Ireland were sunk in gloomy apathy, and degraded by odious 
penal enactments, he raised them up by the imaided force of his 
astonishing genius. He assumed the leadership. In 1809, he began 
his agitation of CathoHc emancipation. He addressed the people 
of Ireland in letters which he headed with the motto from Byron : 

*•' Hereditary bondsmen, know ye not 
Who would be free themselres must strike the blow." 

For years he was the chief organizer and si)eaker at all Catholic 
meetings. In season and out of season, he toiled away, cheering by 
his words and his presence a heart-broken and down-trodden people. 
Peacefully he fought the battles of his native isle, almost single- 
handed. In 18*23, he founded the CathoHc Association ; organized 
the Catholic *• Bent," by which the battle of the people was fought at 
the election hustings: boldly stood for the representation of the county 
of Clare in 182S — ^was elected; forced the thick-headed statesmen and 
barbarous GoTemment of England to concede Catholic emancipation 
in 18*29 ; and finally held a seat in the British Parliament until the 
day of his death. He could have been a judge or a lord, but he 
would rather be Daniel O'ConnelL He cared for position only in as 
far as it enabled him to assist Ireland and her unhappy i>eople. In 
1S31 he left the bar that he might wholly devote himself to the cause 
of his coimtry. He began the Bepeal agitation. He wished to see a 
Parliament once more in Dublin. In 1813 he was prosecuted by 
the Government, and was in prison for three months, when the 
judgment against him was reversed by the House of Lords. Soon 
after he found himself opposed by the *• Young Ireland " party : 
his health declined : his poptdarity declined ; he saw gatmt famine 
stalk the land, and the clouds of misfortune gather and become 
blacker and blacker. While the Irish were famishing by thousands, 

* W. J. O'Xem Damit. " Person^ BecoUections of O'ConnelL" toL L 



466 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland 

Irish grain was shipped from Ireland. Then, that the cause of the 
famine might be investigated, some English scientists were sent 
over. "W ell did the indignant spirit of the great old man — great 
even in adversity — exclaim: "So we have got scientific men from 
England I It appears that they would not answer unless they came 
from England ! just as if we had not men of science in abundance 
in Ireland, and of a higher order and more fitted for the duties 
than any Saxon they could send over. There must be something 
English mixed up in the thing, even in an enquiry involving per- 
haps the life and death of millions; anti-national prejudices must 
be indulged in, and the mixing-stick of English rule introduced ! 
Well, they have given us two reports — these scientific men have. 
And what is the value of them ? Of what practical use will they 
be to the people ? I read 'them over and over again in the hope of 
finding something suggestive of a remedy, and, so help me Heaven ! 
— I don't mean to swear — if I can find anything in the reports of 
these scientific men, unless that they knew not what to say ! They 
suggest a thing, and then show a difficulty. Again a suggestion is 
made which comes invested with another difficulty, and then they 
£ire ^your very humble servants !' Oh ! one single peck of oats — one 
bushel of wheat — ay, one boiled potato — would be better than all 
their reports ! " 

His last words in the British Parliament were: "Ireland is in 
your hands. She is in your power. If you don't save her, she 
can't save herself ; and I solemnly call upon you to recollect that 
I predict, with the sincerest conviction, that one-fourth of her 
population will perish unless you come to her relief ! " Two months 
later the great and venerable O'Connell was no more. He started 
for Eome, "the City of the Soul," but on reaching Genoa he died, 
on the 15th of May, 1847, in the seventy-second year of his age. 
His last words were : " My body to Ireland, my heart to Rome, my 
soul to Heaven ! " 



THE MOSES OF ERIN". 

BY JOHN O'kANE MURRAY. 

Columbia's bold battle-cry had echoed o'er the sea, 
The brave had raised their banners high to straggle and be free, 
When the western shores of Erin, those shores so grand and wild, 
Were honored by a genius young, a good and gifted child. 

Written on the occasion of the O'Connell Centenary, August 6, 1875. 



Daniel O Connell. 467 

A hundred years, a hundred years have slowly rolled away, 
And in this land we celebrate O'Connell's own birthday — 
A day when Justice bright arrayed to his great tomb shall go, 
And smiling Freedom, too, shall there a beauteous bouquet throw. 

The hero of an isle sublime, his course I need not trace, 

Por as he grew in stature grand, he grew in mind and grace ; 

His patent of nobility to him came from above^ 

And ancient faith and native land were objects of his love. 

In him great Nature blended, in one harmonious whole, 
A figure of matchless manhood with beauties of the soul ; 
A mind of sparkling genius bold, a breast that knew not fear, 
A soul that scanned the future with the vision of a seer. 

Great man ! the world could not bribe him, nor Britain make him fear ; 
He thought but of his country — ^her wrongs — ^her sad, sacred tear ! 
Ever faithful, nobly faithful, in hall or felon's cell. 
He loved dear, beauteous Erin ever wisely and well. 

What sword and blood could ne'er obtain from England's brutal hand 
His peaceful power and giant voice called forth at a command — 
A command of magic eloquence that round the world did roll. 
And proclaimed the cause of Erin to every heart and soul ! 

Shall we ever see his like again, so nobly bright and bold, 
Poor Erin's own Demosthenes — greater than he of old ; 
The golden tongue in eloquence, whose words kept Bull at bay, 
Whose language was a thunder grand, that shook tyrannic sway ? 

To me speak not of warriors bold who battled for a name, 
Here was the Christic^n Hercules that fought not for fame. 
But with grim oppression struggled, and single-handed won, 
A glory great, an action grand — more fadeless than the sun ! 

O'Connell ! bright, immortal name ! the greatest of the great, 
The Moses of earttfs blessed isle, the guider of a state ! 
From the Egypt of tyranny he set his people free, 
And the promised land of freedom in the distance had to see ! 

Away in that famed old city, in story proud and bright, 
Renowned home of Columbus, in which first he saw the light, 
There came an honored pilgrim to rest his aged head, 
For him life's battle ended, the hopes of time had fled. 

At last that moment dread arrived, his spirit would depart. 

And then he breathed these farewell words, which moved his mighty heart: 

** My soul to thee. Almighty Lord ! my Irish heart to Rome, 

JMy blessing and my latest thought to my fond island home ! " 



468 The Prose aiid Poetry of Ireland. 

And hovering by that bed of death, near Erin's faithful son, 
Are angeJs. Columbus hails him. on his victories won. 
They rise ! and on high together shine the pilgrims o'er the main, 
And the glorious soul sublime that a " world gave to Spain." 

And clear aloft O'Connell's name a light shall ever shine 

As bright freedom's star resplendent in a firmament divine. 

His words shall be remembered, his glories spoken o'er, 

When England's power and savage rule shall long be things of yore. 

On the green hill-sides of Erin his voice is heard no more, 

But the echo of his clarion tones comes from that upper shore, 
Whence his pure and lofty spirit still cheers us here below, 
And beckons "onward," "upward," as the ages swiftly flow. 



REPLY TO MR. BELLEW. 

{^Delivered in the Catliolic Board, 1813.) 

At this late hour, and in the exhausted state of the meeting, it 
requires all the impulse of duty to overcome my determination to 
allow the debate to be closed Avithout any reply, but a speech has 
been delivered by the learned gentleman (Mr. Belle w) which I can- 
not suffer to pass without further answer. 

My eloquent friend, Mr. O'G-orman, has already powerfully 
exposed some of its fallacies, but there were topics involved in 
that speech which he has npt touched upon, and which, it seems 
to me, I owe it to the Catholics and to Ireland to attempt to 
refute. 

It was a speech of much talent, and much labor and prepara- 
tion. Mr. Bellew declared that he had spoken extempore. 

Well, it was certainly an able speech, and we shall see whether 
this extempore effort of the learned gentleman will appear in the 
newspapers to-morrow in the precise words in which it was uttered 
this day. I have no skill in prophecy, if it does not happen ; and 
if it does so happen, it will certainly be a greater miracle than that 
the learned gentleman should have made an artful and ingenious, 
though, I confess, I think a very mischievous, speech without pre- 
joaration. 

I beg to say that, in replying to him and to the other supporters 
of the amendment, I mean to speak with great personal respect of 



Daniel C ConnelL 469 

tliem. but tliat I feel myself bound to treat their arguments with 
no small degree of reprehension. The learned gentleman naturally 
claims the gi'eater part of my attention. The ingenuity with which 
he has, I trust, gratuitously advocated our bigoted enemies, and the 
abundance in which he has dealt out insinuations against the 
Catholics of Ireland, entitle his discourse to the first place in my 
reprobation. Yet I shall take the liberty of saying a passing word 
of tlie other speakers before I arrive at him. He shall be last, but 
I promise him not least; in my consideration. 

The opposition to the general vote of thanks to the Bishops was 
led by my friend Mr. Hussey. I attended to his speech with that 
regard whicli I always feel for anything that comes from him ; I 
attended to it in the expectation of hearing from his slirewd and 
distinct mind something like argument or reasoning against this 
exjDression of gratitude to our prelates. " But, my Lord, I was 
entirely disappointed ; argument there was not any, reasoning 
there was none ; the sum and substance of his discourse was lite- 
rally this, that he (Mr. Hussey) is a man of a prudent and econo- 
mical turn of mind, that he sets a great value on everything that is 
good, that praise is excellent, and, therefore, he is disposed to be 
•even stingy and niggard of it; that my motion contains four times 
too much of that excellent article, and he therefore desires to strike 
off three parts of my motion, and thinks that one-quarter of his 
praise is full enough for any bishops, and this the learned gentle- 
man calls an amendment. 

Mr. Bagot came next, and he told us that he had made a sjDeech 
but a fortnight ago, which we did not understand, and he has now 
lidded another which is unintelligible ; and so, because he was mis- 
understood before, and cannot be comjorehended at present, he con- 
cludes most logically that the Bishojos are wrong, and that he and 
Mr. Hussev are rio-ht. 

Sir Edward Bellew was the next advocate of censure on the 
Bishops ; he entertained us with a sad specimen of minor polemics, 
and drew a learned and lengthened distinction between essential 
tmd non-essential discipline ; and he insisted that, by virtue of this 
distinction, that which, was called schism by the Catholic prelates 
could be chansfed into orthodoxv bv an Irish baronet. This distinc- 
tion between essential and non-essential, must, therefore, be very 
beautiful and beautifying. It must be very sublime, as it is very 
senseless, unless, indeed, he means to tell us that it contains some 



470 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

secret allusion to our enemies. Tor example, that tlie Duke of 
Richmond affords an instance of the essential whilst my Lord 
Manners is plainly non-essential ; that Paddy Duigenan is essential 
in perfection, and the foppish Peel is, in nature, without essence ; 
that Jack Giffard is, surely, of the essential breed, whilst Mr. Willy 
Saurin is a dog of a different color. 

Such, I presume, is the plain English of the worthy baronet's 
dissertation. Translated thus, it clearly enough alludes to the new 
commission ; but it would be more difficult to show how it applied 
in argument against my motion. I really did not expect so whim- 
sical an opposition from the honorable baronet. If there be any 
feeling of disappointment about him for the rejection of the double 
Veto Bill, he certainly ought not to take revenge on the board by 
bestowing on us all the tediousness of incomprehensible and in- 
sane theology. I altogether disclaim reasoning with him, and I 
freely consent that those who relish his authority as a theologian 
should vote against the prelates. 

And now I address myself to the learned brother of the theolo- 
gical baronet. He began by taking great merit to himself and de- 
manding great attention from you, because he says that he has so 
rarely addressed you. You should yield to him, he says, because he 
so seldom requires your assent. It reminds me of the prayer of the 
English offi.cer before battle: ^^ Great Lord," said he, ^^ during 
the forty years I have lived I never troubled you before with a 
single prayer. I have, therefore, a right that you should grant 
me one request, and do just as I desire for this once." Such was 
the manner in which the learned gentleman addressed us; he begs 
you will confide in his zeal for your interests because he has hitherto 
confined that zeal to his own. He desires that you will rely upon 
his attention to your affairs because he has been heretofore inatten- 
tive to them ; and that you may depend on his anxiety for Catholic 
emancipation inasmuch as he has abstained from taking any step 
to attain that measure. 

Quite different are my humble claims on your notice, quite dif- 
ferent are the demands I make on your confidence. I humbly so- 
licit it because I have sacrificed, and do, and ever will, sacrifice my 
interest to yours \ because I have attended to the varying posture of 
your affairs, and sought for Catholic emancipation with an activity 
and energy proportioned to the great object of our pursuit. I do, 
therefore, entreat your attention whilst I unravel the spider-web of 



Daniel O ConiielL 471 

sopliistiy with which the learned gentleman this day sought to em- 
barrass and disfigure your catise. 

His discourse was diyided into three jjrincipal heads. First, he 
charged the CathoHc prelates with indiscretion ; secondly, he 
charged them with error ; and, lastly, he charged the Catholics 
with bigotry ; and, with the zeal and anxiety of a hired advocate, he 
gi'atuitously vindicated the intolerance of our oppressors. I beg 
your patience whilst I follow the learned gentleman through this 
threefold arrangement of his subject. I shall, however, invert the 
order of his arrangement and begin with his third topic. 

His argument in support of the intolerants runs thus : First, he 
alleges that the Cathohcs are attached to tlieir rehgion with a bigoted 
zeal. I admit the zeal, but I utterly deny the bigotry. He seems 
to think I overcharge the statement. Perha]3s I do ; btit I feel con- 
fident that, in substance, this accusation amounted to a direct charge 
of biofoti'v. Well, havinsr char2:ed the Catholics with a bisfoted 
attachment to their Church, and having truly stated otir rej^tignance 
to any interference on the part of the secretaries of the Castle with 
our prelates, he proceeded to insist that those feelings on our part 
justified the apprehensions of the Protestants. The Catholics, said 
Mr. Bellew, are alarmed for their Church; why should not the 
Protestants be alarmed also for theirs ? The Catholic, said he, de- 
su'es safety for his religion ; why should not the Protestant require 
secuiity for his ? AVhen you Catholics express your anxiety for the 
purity of your faith, adds the learned advocate, you demonstrate the 
necessity there is for the Protestant to be vigilant for the preserva- 
tion of his belief : and hence Mr. Bellew concludes that it is quite 
natural, and quite justifiable in the Liverpools and Eldons of the 
Cabinet to invent and insist upon guards and securities, vetoes, and 
double vetoes, boards of control, and commissions for loyalty. 

Before T reply to this attack upon us and vindication of our 
enemies, let me observe that, however groundless the learned gentle- 
man may be in argument, his friends at the Castle will at least have 
the benefit of boastino: that: such assertions have been made bv a 
CathoHc at the Cathohc Board. 

And now see how futile and unfounded his reasoning is. He 
says that our dislike to the ^n-oposed commission justifies the sus- 
picion in which the plan of such commission originated ; that our 
anxiety for the preservation of our Church vindicates those who 
deem the proposed arrangement necessary for tlie protection of 



472 The Pi'osc and Poetry of Ireland. 

theirs — a mode of reasoning perfectly true, and perfectly applicable, 
if Ave sought any interference with, or control over, the Protestant 
Church. If we desire to form, any hoard or commission to control 
or to regulate the appointment of their bishops, deans, archdeacons, 
rectors, or curates : if we asked or required that a single Catholic 
sliould be consulted upon the management of the Protestant Church 
or of its revenues or privileges : then indeed would the learned gen- 
tleman be right in his argument, and then would he have, by qui* 
example, ^dudicated our enemies. 

But the fact does not bear him out ; for we do not seek, nor 
desire, nor would we accejot of, any kind of interference with the 
Protestant Church. TTe disclaim and disavow any kind of control 
over it. We ask not, nor would we allow, any Catholic authority 
over the mode of ajDpointment of then- clergy. Xay, we are quite 
content to be excluded forever from even advising his Majesty 
with respect to any matter relating to or concerning the Protestant 
Church, its rights its properties, or its privileges. I will, for my 
own part, go much further ; and I do declare most solemnly that I 
would feel and express equal, if not stronger, repugnance to the in- 
terference of a Catholic with the Protestant Church than that I 
have expressed and do feel to any Protestant interference with ours. 
In opposing their interference with us, I content myself with the 
mere war of words. But if the case were reversed, if the Catholic 
sousfht this control over the relio;ion of the Protestant, the Protest- 
ant should command my heart, my tongue, my arm, in opposition 
to so unjust and insulting a measure. So help me God I I would 
in that case not only feel for the Protestant and speak for him, but 
I would fiofht for him. and cheerfullv sacrifice mv life in the defence 
of the great principle for which I have ever contended — the jirin- 
ciple of universal and complete religious liberty. 

Then, can anything be more absurd and untenable than tlie 
argument of the learned gentleman when you see it stripped of the 
false coloring he has given it ? It is absurd to say that merely be- 
cause the Catholic desires to keep his religion free the Protestant 
is thereby justified in seeking to enslave it. Eeverse the position, 
and see whether the learned gentleman will adopt or enforce it. 
The Protestant desires to preserve his religion free : would that 
justify the Catholic in any attempt to enslave it ? I will take the 
learned advocate of intolerance to the bigoted court of Spain or 
Portugal, and ask him would he, in the supposed case, insist that 



Daniel G Connell. 473 

the Catholic was justifiable. Xo, rnv Lord, he will not venture to 
assert that the Catholic would be so ; and I boldly tell him that in 
such a case the Protestant would be unquestionably right, the 
Catholic certainly an insolent bigot. 

But the learned gentleman has invited me to a discussion of the 
question of securities, and I cheerfully follow him. And I do. my 
Lord, assert that the Catholic is warranted in the most scrupulous 
and timid jealousy of any English, for I will not call it Protestaut 
(for it is political, and not, in truth, religious), interference with his 
Clinrch. And I will also assert, and am ready to prove, that the 
English have no solid or rational pretext for requiring any of tliose 
guards, absurdly called securities, over us or our religion. 

My Lord, the Irish Cathohcs never, never broke their faith — 
they never A~iolated their ^ihghted promise to the English. I appeal 
to history for the truth of my assertion. My Lord, the English 
never, never observed their faith with us — they never performed 
their phghted promise ; the history of the last six hundred years 
proves the accuracy of my assertion. I will leave the older pe- 
riods, and fix myself at the Revolution. More than one hundred 
and twenty years have elapsed since the Treaty of Limerick. 
That treaty has been honorably and faithfully performed by the 
Irish Catholics ; it has been foully, disgi'acefully, and directly 
^violated by the English. English oaths and solemn engagements 
bound them to its performance ; it remains still of force and un- 
l^erf ormed, and the ruffian yell of English treacheiy which accom- 
panied its first violation . has, it seems, been rejoeated even in the 
Senate House at the last repetition of the violation of that treaty. 
They rejoiced and they shouted at the i3erjuries of their ancestors 
— at their own want of good faith or common sense. 

Xay, are there not present men who can tell ns, of their own 
knowledofe, of another instance of Ensflish treacherv ? Was not 
the assent of many of the Catholics to the fatal — oh I the fatal — 
measure of the Union purchased by the express and written j^romise 
of Catholic emancipation, made from authority by Lord Corn- 
wallis, aud confirmed by the Prime Minister, Mr. Pitt ? And has 
that promise been performed ; or has Irish credulity afforded only 
another instance of English faithlessness ? Xow, my Lord, I 
ask this assembly whether they can confide in English promises ? 
I say nothing of the solemn j^ledges of individuals. Can you 
confide in the more than ^^nnic faitli of your hereditary task-mas- 



474 T^^^^ Pj'ose and Poet 7y of Ireland. 

ters ? or shall we be accused of our scrupulous jealousy when we 
reject with indignation the contamination of English control over 
our Church ? 

But, said their learned advocate (Mr. Bellew), they have a right 
to demand, because they stand in need of securities. I deny the 
right ; I deny the need. There is not any such right ; there exists 
no such necessity. What security have they had for the century 
that has elapsed since the violation of the Treaty of Limerick ? 
What security have they had during these years of oppression and 
barbarous and bloody legislation ? What security have they had 
whilst the hereditarv claim of the house of Stuart remained ? And 
surely all the right that hereditary descent could give was vested in 
that family. Let me not be misunderstood. I admit they had no 
right ; I admit that their right was taken away by the peojDle. I 
freely admit that, on the contrary, the people have the clear right 
to cashier base and profligate princes. What security had the Eng- 
lish from our Bishops when England was invaded, and that the 
unforttmate but gallant Prince Charles advanced into the heart of 
England, guided by valor, and accompanied by a handful of brave 
men, who had, under his command, obtained more than one vic- 
tory ? He was a man likely to excite and gratify Irish enthusiasm. 
He was chivalrous and brave ; he was a man of honor and a gen- 
tleman — no violater of his word ; he spent not his time in making 
his soldiers ridiculous with horse-tails and white featliers ; he did 
not consume his mornings in tasting curious drams, and evenings 
in gallanting old women. What security had the English, then? 
What security had they against our Bishops or our laity when Ame- 
rica nobly flung off the yoke that had become too heavy to be 
borne, and sought her independence at the risk of her being ? 
What security had they then ? I will tell you, my Lord. Their 
security at all those periods was j^erfect and complete because it 
existed in the conscientious allegiance of the Catholics ; it consisted 
in the dutv of allesriance which the Irish Catholics have ever held, 
and will, I trust, ever hold, sacred ; it consisted in the conscien- 
tious submission to legitimate authority, however oppressive, which 
our Bishops have always preached and our laity have always prac- 
tised. 

And now, my Lord, they have the additional security of our 
oaths, of our ever-inviolated oaths of allegiance ; and if they had 
emancipated us, they would have had the additional security of 



Daniel G Coiiiiell. 475 

our gratitude and of our j^ersoual aud immediate interesis. We 
have gone tlirougli persecution and sorrow; we have experienced 
oppression and affliction, and vet we have continued faithful. 
How absui'd to think that additional security could be necessary 
to sruard against conciliation and kindness ! 

But it is not bigotry that requires those concessions ; they were 
not invented by mere intolerance. The Enghsh do not dislike us 
as Catholics ; they simply hate us as Irish. They exhaust their blood 
and treasure for the Catholics of Spain ; they have long observed 
and cherished a close and a5ecrionate alliance with the ignorant 
and bigoted Cathohcs of Portugal ; and now they exert every sinew 
to preserve those Catholics from the horrors of a foreign yoke. 
They emancipated the French Catholics in Canada, and a German 
Cathohc is allowed to rise to the first rank in his profession — the 
armv ; he can command not only Irish, but even Ensrhsh Protes- 
rants. Let us, therefore, be just; there is no such horror of 
'•' Popery " in England as is su]3posed. They have a great dislike to 
Irish Catholics ; but separate the qualities, put the filthy whiskers 
and foreign visage of a German on the animal, and the Catholic is 
entitled to high favor from the just and discriminating Enghsh. 
We fight their battles, we beat their enemies, we pay their taxes, 
and we are degi*aded, oppressed, and insulted, whilst the Spanish, 
the Portuguese, the French, and the German Catholics are coiuted, 
cherished, and promoted. 

I revert now to the learned gentleman's accusation of the Bishops. 
He has accused them of error in doctrine and of indiscrerion in prac- 
tice. He tells us that he is counsel to the College of Maynooth, 
and in that capacity he seems to aiTogate to himseli much theolo- 
gical and legal knowledge. I concede the law, but I deny the 
divinity ; neither can I admit the accui-acy of the eulogium which 
he has pronounced on that institution, with its mongrel board of 
control, half Cathohc and half Protestant. I was, indeed, at a loss 
to account for the strans^e want of talent — ^for the silence of Irish 
genius which has been remarked within the College. I now see it 
easily explained. The incubus of jealous and rival intolerance sits 
upon its walls, and genius and taste and talent fly from the sad 
dormitory, where sleeps the spirit of dulness. I have heard, in- 
deed, of their Crawlevs and these converts, but where or when will 
that College produce a Magee or a Sandes, a McDonnell or a Griffin ? 
When will the warm heart of Irish srenius exhibit in Mavnooth such 



476 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

bright examples of worth aiid talent as those men disclose? It is 
true that the bigot may rule in Trinity College ; the highest sta- 
tion in it mar be the reward of writins; an extremely bi2:oted and 
more foolish pamphlet ; but still there is no conflicting princi^Dle of 
hostile jealousy in his rulers ; and, therefore, Irish genius does not 
slumber there, nor is it smothered as at Maynooth. 

The accusation of error brought against the Bishops by the 
learned gentleman is sustained simply upon his ojoinion and autho- 
rity. The matter stands thus : At the one side we have the most 
reverend and rio-ht reverend the Catholic Prelates of Ireland, who 
assert that there is schism in the proposed arrangement; on the 
other side we have the verv reverend the counsel for the colle2:e of 
Maynooth, who asserts that there is no schism in that arrangement. 
These are the conflicting authorities. The reverend Prelates assert 
the one; he, the counsellor, asserts the other ; and as we have not 
leisure to examine the point here docti'inally, we are reduced to the 
sad dilemma of choosius: between the Prelates and the lawyer. 
There may be a want of taste in the choice which I make, but I 
confess I cannot but prefer the Bishops. I shall, therefore, say with 
them there would be schism in the arrangement, and deny the as- 
sertion of the reverend counsel that it would not be schism. But 
sujDpose his reverence the counsel for Maynooth was right, and the 
Bishops wi'ong, and that in the new arrangement there wotild be no 
schism, I then say there would be worse ; there would be corrup- 
tion and profligacy and subserviency to the Castle in it, and its de- 
grading eflects would soon extend themselves to every rank and 
class of the Catholics. 

I now come to the second charge which the learned gentleman, in 
his capacity of counsel to the College of Maynooth, has brought 
against the Bishops. It consists of the high crime of ^^ indiscre- 
tion." They were indiscreet, said he, in coming forward so soon 
and so boldly. "What I when they found that a plan had been 
formed which they knew to be schismatic and deofradins: — when 

J CO 

they found that this plan was matured and jirinted and brought 
into Parliament and embodied in a bill and read twice in the House 
of Commons, without any consultation with and, as it were, in 
contempt of the Catholics of Ireland — shall it be said that it was 
either premature or indiscreet solemnly and loudly to protest against 
such 2')lan ? If it were indiscreet, it was an indiscretion which I 
love aud admire — a necessary indiscretion, unless, perhaps, the 



Danivl (JConiulL ^-jj 

learned connsel for Maynootli may imagine that the proj^er time 
would not arriTe for this protest until the hill had actually passed, 
and all protest should he unaTailing. 

'So. my Lord, I cannot admire this thing called Catholic discre- 
tion, which would manage our affairs in secret and declare our 
opinions when it was too late to give them any importance. Catholic 
discretion may he of value at the Castle ; a Catholic secret mav he 
carried to he discotinted there for prompt payment. The learned 
gentleman may also tell us the price that Cathohc discretion bears 
at the Castle — ^whether it he worth a place, a peerage, or a pension. 
But if it have value and a price for individuals, it is of no worth to 
the Cathohc people. I reject and abjure it as apphcable to pubhc 
offic-ers. Our opinions ought to be formed deliberately, hut thev 
should be annotmc-ed manfully and distinctly. We should be despi- 
cable and deserre to continue in slaTeiy if we cotdd equivocate or 
disguise otur sentiments on those subjects of vital importance ; and 
I call upon you to thank the Catholic Prelates precisely because 
they had not the learned gentleman's quahty of discretion, and that 
they had the real and gentiine discretion, which made them pub- 
hsh resolutions consistent with their exalted rank and reverend 
character, and most consonant to the wishes and views of the 
Cathohc f»eople of Ireland. 

I now draw to a close, and I conjure you not to come to any divi- 
sion. Let the amendment be withdrawn by my learned friend, 
and let our approbation of our amiable and excellent, our dignified 
and independent. Prelates be, as it ought to be, unanimous. We 
want unanimity ; we reqtiire to combine in the constitutional pur- 
suit of Cathohc emancipation every class and rank of the Catho- 
lics — ^the prelate and the peer, the country gentleman and the far- 
mer, the peasant and his priest. Our career is to begin again ; let 
our watchword be unanimity, and our object be plain and imdis- 
guised, as it has been — ^namely, simple Bej^eal. Let us not involve 
or embarrass ourselves with vetoes and arrangements and securities 
and guards and pretexts of divisions and all the implements for min- 
isterial corruption and Castle dominion. Let our cry be simple 
Bepeal ! 

It is well, it is very well, that the late bUl has been rejected. I 
rejoice that it has been scouted. Our sapient friends at Cork called 
it a •'• Charter of Emancipation.'' You, my Lord, called it so; but, 
with much respect, you and they are greatly mistaken. In truth. 



j^yS TJic Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

it A\-as no charter at all, nor like a cliarter : and it would not have 
emancij^ated. Tliis charter of emancipation was no charter, and 
would give no emancipation. As a jDlain, prose-like expression it 
was unsupported, and as a figure of fiction it made yeiy bad poetiy. 
Xo, mv Lord, the bill would have insulted your religion and done 
almost nothing for your liberties : it would have done nothing at all 
for the people. It would send a few of om- discreet Catholics, with 
their Castle discretion, into the House of Commons, but it would 
not have enabled Catholic peers in Ireland to Tote for the repre- 
sentative peers ; and thus the blunder arose, because those fiiends 
who, I am told, took so much trouble for you examined the Act of 
Union only, and did not take the trouble of examininsr the act res^u- 
lating the mode of voting for the representative j)eers. 

The bill would have done nothinsr for the CathoHc bar save the 
paltry dignity of silk gowns, and it would have actually deprived 
that bar of the places of assistant hamster, which, as tlie law 
stands, they may enjoy. It would have done nothing in corpora- 
tions — ^literally nothing at all: and when I pressed this on Mr. 
Plunket, and pointed out to him the obstacles to corporate rights 
in a conference with which, since his return to Ireland, he honored 
me, he informed me — and informed me, of course, truly — that the 
reason why the corporations could not be further 02)ened, or even 
the Bank of Ireland mentioned, was because the Ensrlish would 
not listen to any violation of chartered rights. And this bill, my 
Lord — this inefficient, useless, and insulting bill — must be dismified 
with the appellation of a '•' Charier of Emancipation.*' I do most 
res2)ectfully entreat, my Lord, that the expression may be well con- 
sidered before it is used again. 

And now let me entreat, let me conjure the meeting to banish 
every angiy emotion, every sensation of rivalship or oi^posinon : let 
us recollect that we owe this vote to the unimpeached character of 
our woithy Prelates. Even our enemies respect them, and in the 
fury of religious and pohtical calumny the breath even of hostile 
and polemical slander has not reached them. Shall CathoMcs, then, 
be found to express, or even to imi^ly, censure ? 

Recollect, too, that your country requires your unanimous sui> 
port. Poor, degraded, and fallen Ireland has you, and, I may id- 
most say, you alone, to cheer and sustain her ! Her friends have 
been lukewarm and faint-hearted ; her enemies are vigilant,- active, 
yelling, and insultiufr. In the name of vour coimtrv I call on vou 



Daniel G* Connell. 479 

not to divide, but to concentrate your unanimous efforts to her sup- 
port, till bigotry shall be put to flight and oppression banished this 
land for ever. 



O'COXXELL'S LETTERS TO ARCHBISHOP MACHALE. 

Merriox Square/ 31st December, 1827. 

My Lord : The public papers will have already informed your 
Lordship of the resolution to hold a meeting for petition in every 
parish in Ireland on Monday, 13tli January. 

I should not j)resume to call j^our Lordship's j^articular attention 
to this measure, or respectfully to solicit your countenance and sup- 
port in your diocese, if I v\^as not most deeply convinced of its ex- 
treme importance and utility. The combination of national action 
— all Catholic Ireland acting as one man — must necessarily have a 
powerful effect on the minds of the ministry and of the entire 
British nation ; a people who can be thus brought to act together, 
and by one impulse, are too j)owerful to be neglected, and too for- 
midable to be long opposed. 

Convinced, deeply, firmly convinced, of the importance of this 
measure, I am equally so of the impossibility of succeeding unless 
we obtain the countenance and support of the Catholic prelates of 
Ireland. To you, my Lord, I very respectfully a^^peal for that su23- 
j)ort. 1 hope and respectfully trust that in your diocese no parish 
will be found deficient in activity and zeal. 

I intend to publish in the papers the form of a j^etition for 
emancipation which may be adopted in all places where no indi- 
Addual may be fotmd able and willing to prepare a proper draft. 

I am sorry to trespass thus on your Lordship's most valuable time, 
but I am so entirely persuaded of the vital utility of the measure 
of simultaneous meeting to petition that I venture over again, but 
in the most respectful manner, to urge on your kind and considerate 
attention the propriety of assisting in such manner as you may deem 
best to attain our object. 

I have the honor to be, with profound respect, ni}' Lord, your 
Lordship's most obedient humble servant, 

Daxiel O'Coxxell. 

To the Eight Rev. V>y. MacHale/ 

^ Dublin. s At this time Dr. ilacHale was Bishop of Kiilala. 



480 The Prose and Poetry of Irccand. 

LoxDOX, 22d March, 1834:. 

My ever-eespected Lokd : I liad the honor of receiving a let- 
ter from you some time ?i^o, promising a rej^eal petition, and I wish 
to say that the petition has not come to hand. I regret to be 
obliged to add that the number of repeal petitions does not at all 
correspond with my hopes and expectations. 

I am the more sorry for this because 1 have the most intimate 
cojiviction that nothing of value can possibly he done for Ireland 
until we have a domestic Parliament. The faction which, in all its 
ramifications, bears so severely on our people and our country, can 
never be rendered innoxious whilst they can cling, even in idea, to 
support from the Government of this country. It is a subject of 
serious but melancholy speculation to reflect upon the innate spirit 
of hatred of everything Irish which seems to be the animating prin- 
ciple of their existence. You certainly have two distinct specimens 
of the worthlessness of that existence in your county members. 
Two such ''lubbers," as the seamen would call them, two such 
••bustoons," as we in Munster would denominate them, never yet 
figured on any stage, public or private. One of the best of your 
Lordship's good works will be assisting to muster such a combina- 
tion of electoral force in your county as will ensure the rejection of 
both at the next practical opportunity. I should be tempted to 
despair of Ireland if I could doubt of your success. I read with 
deep and painful interest your published letters to Lord Grey. 
TVhat a scene of tp-anny and heartless oppression on the one hand \ 
what a frightful view of wretchedness and niiseiy on the other I 
A man is neither a human beins^ nor a Christian who does not de- 
vote all his energies to find a remedy for such grievances. But that 
remedy is not to be fotind in a British Parliament. 

You will see by the papers that the Protestant dissenters in this 
country are storming that citadel of intolerance and pride — the 
Established Church. The effect of such an attack can operate only 
for good in Ireland. This was the stronsfhold of the Irish Establish- 
ment. As long as they had England at their back they could laugh 
to scorn all attempts in Ireland to curb them. But I believe, firmly 
believe, their days are numbered, and hope that Ave shall see, but 
certainly not weep. 

I have the honor to be, my Lord, most respectfully, your most 
obedient servant, Daxiel O'Coxxell. 

Eight Eev. Dr. MacHale. 



Daniel GCoii7iell. 481 

Mereiox Square. lOtli December. 1834. 

My eeveeed Loed : There have been many letters of coDgi-atn- 
lation '° addressed to your Grace, btit none, I will venture to say. so 
cordial as mine, becanse I not only congrattilate you as a gentle- 
man wliom even as a private individual I highly respect, but con- 
gratulate you in the name of Ireland, and for her sake ; and above 
all, for the sake of that faith whose sacred deposit has been pre- 
served by yoiu" predecessors, and will be presei'ved unblemished, 
and indeed with increased lustre, by yotir Grace. 

Indeed, I venture to hope that there are times coming when the 
period of the oppression of the Church in Ireland, destined by God 
in his adorable dispensations to arrive, will have arrived. I do, I 
confess, venttu-e to ausrur favorablv from vour noruination bv his 
Holiness the Pope — you who had proved yourself too honest an 
Irishman not to be obnoxious to the British Administrtition. 

It seems to me to be the brilliant dawn of a noonday in which the 
light of Eome will no longer be obscured by the clouds of English 
influence. I often sighed at the delusion created in the pohtical 
circles at liome on the subject of the English Government. They 
thought, good souls, that England favored the Catholics when she 
only yielded to our claims, not knowing that the secret animosity to 
Catholicity was as envenomed as ever it was. 

The present Pope " — may God i^rotect his HoHness — ^has seen 
through that delusion, and you are proof that it will no longer be 
a cause of misconception to be as true to the political interests as to 
the spiritual wants of the j)eople of Ireland. I am dehghted at 
this new era. Xo man can be more devoted to the spiritual authori- 
ty of his Holiness. I always detested what were called the liberties 
of the •*' Church in France.** 

I am convinced that the more direct and unequivocal is that 
authority according to the canons, the more easy will it be to jire- 
serve the tmity of faith. 

I need not add that there does not live a human being more sub- 
missive — in ornnihus — to the Church than I am, from the most un- 
changeable conviction. I have only to add that if youi* Grace coidd 
have any occasion for any exertion of mine in support of any can- 
didate in any county in Connaught, I shall have the greatest pleasure 
in receiving your suggestions as cherished commands. 

-■ Dr. MacHale had jost been appointed Archbishop of Tuam. 
' ' Gregorv XVI. 



482 The Prose ajid Poetjy of Ireland. 

I have tlie honor to be, witli profound respect, my Lord, of your 
Orace the most obedient, faithful servant, 

Daniel O'Coxxell. 
Most Eev. Dr. MacHale. 



Merkion" Square, 9th Nov., 1837. 

My ever-respected axd dear Lord: I know you pity me" 
and afford me the rehef of j^onr prayers. To-morrow I begin to 
console my heart by agitation. I am noio determined to leave every 
other consideration aside and to agitate really — to agitate to the full 
extent the law sanctions. Command me now in everything. 

I got this morning a blank cover enclosing two letters for your 
Grace. I enclose one in this and another in a second frank ; they 
would be overiueiglit if sent together. The address has the name 
of George Washington on the corner — whether an assumed name or 
not I have no room to conjecture. I mention these things merely 
to show your Grace that if these letters be not genuine I am unable 
to afford any clue to the writer. They may, however, be perfectly 
correct in all particulars. 

I believe we are safe in all the counties and towns in Oonnaught 
save Sligo and Athlone. I indeed believe the latter tolerably secure. 
Every nerve must be strained to increase the Irish majority in Par- 
liament. My watchword is, " Irish or Eepeal." Indeed, I entertain 
strong hopes that we shall live to see the latter — '' a consummation 
most devoutly to be wished." 

Dr. England '^ was with me yesterday ; he gave me some strong 
evidence of the hostility of the English Catholics to those of Ireland, 
lie has promised to give it to me in writing, and I will send your 
Grace a copy. He goes off to ^'Haite" next week, but purposes 
to return next year, and then intends to suggest a place for a Foreign 
Missionary Society in Ireland, should it meet with the approbation 
of the Irish prelates. Irish priests are abundantly abused, yet tliey 
are in demand by the religious and zealous Catholics all over the 
world. 

I have the honor to be, with profound respect, my revered Lord, 
of your Grace the servant, Daxiel O'Ooisri^ELL. 

Most Eev. Dr. MacHale. 

1- He had just buried his devoted wife. 

13 The celebrated Bishop of Charleston, S. C. 



RICHARD LA LOR SHELL, 

"A man who, while our language lasts, will be spoken of as one of the most 
brilliant orators of Ireland." — Dr. R. S. Mackenzie. 

KICHAED LALOR SHEIL was born at Waterford, Ireland, in 
the year 1793.' His father, Edward Slieil, had acquired in 
Cadiz, Spain, a considerable fortune, whicli lie invested in the pur- 
chase of an estate near Waterf ord, and married Miss Catharine Mac- 
Carthy, a lady of the county of Tipperary. 

Richard received his first education from a French clergyman, an 
exile from his .own country, who resided at Mr. Sheil's house. The 
boy was then sent to a French Catholic school at Kensington, 
afterwards to the Jesuit College at Stonyhurst, and finally he 
entered Trinity College, Dublin, ^^ with a competent knowledge of 
the classics, some acquaintance with Italian and Spanish, and the 
power of speaking and writing French as if it were his mother- 
tongue." Before he was twenty, he graduated with distinction. 

In 1814, at the age of twenty-one. Shell was called to the Irish 
bar. His youth, of course, was against him. His tastes inclined to 
literature, and for several years his contributions to the London 
magazines afforded him the chief means of subsistence. He wrote 
for the stage also — excited by the brilliant genius of Miss O'Neill, 
the Irish tragedienne — and his j)lay of ^'Evadne" still retains a 
place in the acted drama by means of its declamatory poetry and 
effective situations.'^ 

In 1816 Shell married Miss O'Halloran, a young lady whose only 
fortune was her education and her great personal beauty. 

He joined with O'Connell in establishing the Catholic Association 
in 1823. *' In this body,*' writes Dr. R. S. Mackenzie, "both 
leaders spoke earnestly and well. O'Connell's role was to insist on 
justice for Ireland ; Shell's to cast contempt and ridicule iipon 
what was called Protestant ascendancy. ^^ 

In the Catholic cause Shell labored for many years with tireless 

J MacNevin, in his " Memoir "' of Sheil, says that he was bom in the county of Kilkenny 
on the 16th of August, 1791. Dr. Mackenzie, in his '"Memoir" of Sheil, states what we 
give above. Somebody has blundered. 

2 R. Shelton Mackenzie, D.C.E.., "Memoir of Sheil." 

483 



484 TJie Pi'osc a?id Poetry of IrclaJid. 

dcTotion. At the celebrated election of O'Connell in 1829 as M.P. 
for the county of Clare, he was the * -Liberators''' most eloquent 
supporter. His speech on that historic occasion was among Ms 
happiest efforts. But perhaps the most solid and splendid of all 
his speeches was that delivered the previons year at Penenden 
Hearh, England, in defence of the Irish Catholics and their reli- 
gion. This speech is given on page 485 in the present volume. Of 
this speech the famous philosopher. Jeremy Bentham, wrote to his 
friend Galloway: *'• So masterly a union of logic and rhetoric as 3Ir. 
Shell's speech scarcely have I ever beheld." 

The Caihohc question having been settled, a great change took 
place in the fortunes of Shell. Through Lord Egerton he was made 
king's counsel. But the object of his ambition was a seat in the 
House of Commons, In 1831 he was returned for ACilboume Port ; 
in after years for the county of Tipperary ; and from 1811 to 1850 
he represented the little Irish borough of Dungarvan. 

In Parliament, the jDosition occupied by Shell was immediate, 
unquestioned, and exalted. In fact, he took rank at once as one of 
the best orators in the Hotise of Commons. Thouofh not a verv 
ready debater, his prepared speeches enchained attention, and won 
the applause even of his antagonists. He had the disadvantage of a 
small j)erson, negligent attire, shilH voice, and vehement gesticula- 
tion : but these were all forgotten when he spoke, and his singu- 
larly peculiar manner gave the appearance of imptilse even to his 
most elaborated compositions. Words cannot briefly describe the 
character of Sbeil's rhetoric. It was aptly said, in the style of his 
own metaphors, " He thinks lightning." ^ 

In Xovember, 1S50, Shell, whose health was declining, was 
offered, and accepted, the post of British Plenipotentiary at the 
Court of Tuscany, Italy. He died at Florence of a sudden attack 
of gout, on the "2 5 th of May, 1851. 

Shell's '' Sketches of the Irish Bar,*' one of the most spicy, 
graphic, and entertaining works in otir literature, was begun in 
1822 in the Xew Monildy Magazine, a London periodical, then 
conducted by the poet, Thomas Campbell. *•' The far-famed paper 
on O'Connell,*' writes Dr. Mackenzie, '•'was repeatedly reprinted in 
Euroixi and America, and translated into French, German, Italian, 
and Spanish." ''The Sketches of the Irish Bar,"' in two volumes, 

' B. aielton ^Eackenzie, D.C.L. 



Richard Lalor Sheil. 485 

with a memoir and notes by E. Shelton Mackenzie, D.C.L., was 
first publislied in Xew York City in 1854. 

'*' Siieil/'' said I^ortli, ^'^ erred in tlie choice uf a jn'ofession. Had 
he cultivated the drama instead of the law, he would have equalled 
Shaksj^ere.'" 

^^ Sheil/'' wrote Henry Giles, *^had a mind of the finest nature 
and of the richest cultivation, a yigorous intellect, and an exuberant 
fancy. His speaking was a condensation of thought and passion, 
in brilliant, elaborate, and often antithetical expression. He 
happily united precision and embellishment, and his ideas in being 
adorned became not only attractive, but distinct. Images were as 
easy to him as words, and his figures were as correct as they were 
abundant. TTith a factilty peculiarly dramatic, he gave yiyid illu- 
sion to the scenes and characters with which he filled the imagination 
of his hearers. He compressed into a passage the materials of a 
tragedy, and moved as he pleased to terror and to pity. He was 
not the less the master of invective and of sarcasm. He was in 
prose almost as effective a satirist as Pojoe was in verse — as scath- 
ing and as lacerating. He clothed burlesque in as mocking a 
gravity, was as bitter in his irony, as polished in his wit, as elegant 
in his banter, and sometimes as unmerciful in his ridicule. In the 
battle for Catholic emancipation this splendid and impassioned 
orator was heard everywhere in Ireland shrieking forth the 
wrongs of his people. That shrill voice of his cried aloud and 
spared not. It stiiTed his brethren to indignation and to action ; it 
pierced into their souls, and awakened to torture the sense of their 
degradation. It was heard in metropolis and village, on the moun- 
tain and in the market-place. It rang out from sea to sea, and was 
chorused by the shouts of sym^^athetic multitudes. O'Connell was 
the legislator and the doer, but in the agency of speech Shiel was 
indefatigable, and had no sujperior."'^ 



THE CATHOLICS OF IRELAXD. 

{Speech at Penenden Heath, England, October 24, 1828.) 

Let no man believe that I have come here in order that I might 
enter the lists of reli2:ious controversy and eno-asre with anv of vou 
in a scholastic disputation. In the year 1828 the Eeal Presence 

* " Lectures and Essays.*'' 



486 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

does not afford au approj)riate subject for debate, and it is not by 
the shades of a mystery that the rights of a British citizen are to be 
determined. I do not know whether there are many here by whom 
I am regarded as an idolater because I conscientiously adhere to the 
faith of your forefathers, and profess the doctrine in which I was 
born and bred ; but if I am so accounted by you, you ought not to 
inflict a civil deprivation upon the accident of the cradle. You 
ought not to punish me for that for which I am not in reality to 
blame. If you do, you will make the misfortune of the Catholic 
the fault of the Protestant, and by inflicting a wrong upon my re- 
ligion cast a discredit upon your own. I am not the worse subject 
of my King and the worse citizen of my country because I concur 
in the belief of the great majority of the Christian world ; and I 
will venture to add, with the frankness and something of the blunt- 
ness bv which Ensflishmen are considered to be characterized, that 
if I am an idolater, I have a right to be one if I choose; my idola- 
try is a branch of my prerogative, and is no business of yours. 

But you have been told by Lord Winchelsea that the Catholic 
religion is the adversary of fi'eedom. It may occur to you, per- 
ha^js, that his Lordship affords a proof in his own person that a 
jDassion for Protestantism and a love of liberty are not insej^arably 
associated ; but without instituting too minute or embarrassing an 
enquiry into the services to freedom which in the coui'se of his 
poHtical life have been conferred by my Lord Winchelsea, and put- 
ting aside all j^ersonal considerations connected with the accuser, 
let me proceed to the accusation. 

Calumniators of Catholicism, have you read the history of your 
countrv ? Of the chars^es ao:ainst the relis^ion of Ireland the an- 
nals of England afford the confutation. The body of your com- 
mon laws was ofiven bv the Catholic Alfred. He ^ave vou vour 
judges, your magistrates, your high sheriffs, your courts of justice, 
your elective system, and the great bulwark of your liberties — the 
trial by jury. TThen Englishmen peruse the chronicles of their 
gloiT their hearts beat high with exultation, their emotions are pro- 
foundly stirred, and their souls are ardently expanded. Where is 
the English boy who reads the story of his great island whose pulse 
does not beat at the name of Eunnemede, and whose nature is not 
deeply thrilled at the contemplation of that great incident when 
the mitred Langton, with his uplifted crozier, confronted the 
tyrant whose sceptre shook in his trembling hand, and extorted 



Richard Lalor SIieiL 487 

what YOU have so justly called tlie Great, aud what, I trust iu God, 
Tou will have catise to designate as yotir everlasting. Charter ? It 
was by a Catholic Pontiff that the foundation-stone in the Temple 
of Liberty was laid, and it was at the altars of that religion which 
YOU are accustomed to consider as the handmaid of oj^pression that 
the architects of the Constitution knelt down. 

TVho confeiTcd upon the 2^eo23le the right of self-taxation, and 
fixed, if he did not create, the representation of the people ? The 
Catholic Edward the First, while in the reign of Edward the 
Third perfection was given to the representative system, parlia- 
ments were annually called, and the statute against constructiTe 
treason was enacted. It is false, foully, infamously false, that the 
Catholic reliarion, the relisfion of Your forefathers, the reliodon of 
seven millions of your fellow-subjects, has been the auxiliary of de- 
basement, and that to its influences the suppression of British 
freedom can, in a single instance, be refen*ed. 1 am loath to say 
that which can give you cause to take offence; but when the faith 
of my country is made the object of imputation I cannot help, I 
cannot refrain, from breaking into a retaliatory interrogation, and 
from asking whether the overthrow of the old religion of England 
was not effected by a tyrant with a hand of iron and a heart of 
stone ? Whether Heniy did not trample upon fi*eedom while upon 
Catholicism he set his foot ; and whether Elizabeth herself, the 
virgin of the Eeformation, did not inherit her despotism with her 
creed ; whether in her reign the most barbarous atrocities were not 
committed; whether torture, in violation of the Cathohc common 
law of England, was not politically inflicted, and with. the shrieks 
of agony the Towers of Julius in the dead of night did not re- 
echo ? And to pass to a more recent period, was it not on the very 
day on which Eussell perished on the scaffold that the Protestant 
TTniversity of Oxford j^ubhshed the declaration in favor of passive 
obedience, to which your Cathohc ancestors would have laid down 
their lives rather than have submitted ? 

These are facts taken fi'om your own annals, with which every 
one of you should be made familiar ; but it is not to your own 
annals that the recriminatoiy evidence on which I am di-iven to rely 
shall be confined. If your religion is the inseparable attendant 
upon liberty, how does it come to pass that Prussia, and Sweden, 
and Denmark, and half the German States should be Protestants, 
aud should be also slaves ? You mav susfsrest to me that in the 



488 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

larger portion of Catholic Europe freedom does not exist; but you 
should bear in mind that at a period when the Catholic religion was 
in its most palmy state freedom flourished in countries in which it 
is now extinct. Look at Italy, not indeed as she now is, but as she 
was before ^lartin Luther was born, when literature and liberty 
were associated, and the arts imparted their embellishments to her 
free political institntions. I call up the memory of the Italian 
Catholic republics in the great cause which I am sufficiently ad- 
venturous to plead before you. Florence, accomplished, manufac- 
turing, and democratic, the model of your own municipal corpora- 
tions, gives a noble evidence in favor of Catholicism; and Venice, 
Catholic Venice, rises in the splendor of her opulence and the 
light of her liberty to corroborate the testimony of her celebrated 
sister with a still more lofty and majestic attestation. If from Italy 
I shall ascend the Alps, shall I not find in the mountains of Switz- 
erland the sublime memorials of liberty and the reminiscences of 
those old achievements which preceded the theology of Geneva, and 
which were performed by men by whom the ritual of Rome was 
uttered on the glaciers, and the great mystery of Catholicism was 
celebrated on the altars which nature had provided for that high 
and- holy worship ? But Spain, I may be told, Spain affords the 
proof that to the purposes of despotism her religion has always lent 
its impious and disastrous aid. That mistake is a signal one, for 
when Spain was most devotedly Catholic Spain was comparatively 
free; her Cortes assumed an attitude nobler even than your own 
Parliament, and told the King, at the opening of every session in 
which they were convened, that they were greater and invested 
with a higher authority than himself. In the struggles made by 
Spaniards within our own memory we have seen the revival of that 
lofty sentiment ; while amongst the descendants of Spaniards in 
the provinces of South America, called into existence in some sort 
by yourselves, we behold no religion but the Catholic, and no gov- 
ernment of which the principle is not founded in the supremacy of 
the people. Republic after rejoublic has arisen at your bidding 
through that immeasurable expanse, and it is scarce an exaggeration 
to say (if I may allude to a noble i)assage in one of the greatest 
writers of our time) that liberty, with her *^ meteor standard ^' un- 
furled upon the Andes, 

"Looks from her throne of clouds o'er half the world." 



^ Richard Lalor Shell. 489 

False, I repeat it with all the vehemence of indignant asseveration, 
utterly false is the charge habitually preferred against the religion 
which Englishmen have laden with penalties, and have marked with 
degradation. I can bear any other charge but this — to any other 
charge I can listen with endurance. Tell me that I prostrate myself 
before a sculptured marble ; tell me that to a canvas glowing with 
the imagery of heaven I bend my knee ; tell me that my faith is my 
perdition ; and, as you traverse the churchyards in which your fore- 
fathers are buried, pronounce upon those who have lain there for 
many hundred years a fearful and appalling sentence ; yes, call what 
I regard as the truth not only an error, but a sin to which mercy shall 
not be extended ; all this will I bear — to all this will I submit — nay, 
at all this I will but smile ; but do not tell me that I am in heart 
and creed a slave ; that my countrymen cannot brook ; in their own 
bosoms they carry the high consciousness that never was imputation 
more foully false, or more detestably calumnious. I do not believe 
that with the passion for true liberty a nation was ever more enthu- 
siastically inspired, never were men more resolved, never were men 
more deserving to be free, than the nation in whose oppi'ession, fatally 
to Ireland and to themselves, the statesmen of England have so 
madly persevered. 

What have been the results of that system which you have been 
this day called together to sustain ? You behold in Ireland a beau- 
tiful country, with wonderful advantages agricultural and commer- 
cial — a resting-place for trade on its way to either hemisphere ; in- 
dented with havens, watered by numerous rivers; with a fortunate 
climate in which fertility is raised upon a rich soil, and inhabited by 
a bold, intrepid, and, with all their faults, a generous and enthusi- 
astic people. Such is Ireland as God made her ; what is Ireland as you 
have made her ? This fine country swarming with a population 
the most miserable in Europe, of whose wretchedness, if you are the 
authors, you are beginning to be the victims ; the j)oisoned chalice 
is returned in its just circulation to your lips. Harvests the most 
abundant are reaped by men with starvation in their faces ; all the 
great commercial facilities of the country are lost; the rivers that 
should circulate opulence and turn the machinery of a thousand 
manufactures flow to the ocean without wafting a boat or turning a 
wheel ; the wave breaks in solitude in the silent magnificence of de- 
serted and shipless harbors. In place of being a source of wealth 
and revenue to the empire, Ireland cannot defray its own expenses ; 



490 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

her discontent costs millions of money : she debilitates and endangei'S 
England. The great mass of her population are alienated and disso- 
ciated from the state; the influence of the constituted and legitimate 
authorities is gone ; a strange, anomalous, and unexamj^led kind of 
government has sprung up and exercises a despotic sway ; while the 
class, inferior in numbers, but accustomed to authority, and infuriated 
at its loss, are thrown into formidable reaction ; the most ferocious 
passions rage from one extremity of the country to the other. Hun- 
dreds and thousands of men arrayed Avith badges gather in the 
South, and the smaller faction, with discipline and with arms, are 
marshalled in the Xortli : the country is like one vast magazine of 
powder, which a spark might ignite into an explosion, and of which 
England would not only feel, but, perhaps, never recover from the 
shock. 

And is this state of things to be permitted to continue ? It is only 
requisite to present the question in order that all men should an- 
swer, somethino: must be done. What is to be done ? Ai-e you to 
re-enact the penal code ? Are you to deprive Catholics of their 
proj^erties, to shut up their schools, to drive them from the bar, to 
strip them of the elective franchise, and reduce them to Egyptian 
bondage ? It is easy for some visionary in opp)ression to imagine 
these thiuofs. In the drunkenness of sacerdotal debauch men 
have been found to give vent to such sanguinary aspirations, and 
the teachers of the Gosj)el, the ministers ^ of a mild and merciful 
Redeemer, have uttered in the midst of their ferocious wassails the 
bloody orison that their country should be turned into one vast 
field of massacre, and that upon the pile of carnage the genius of 
Orange ascendancy should be enthroned. But these men are maniacs 
in ferocity, whose appetites for blood you will scarcely undertake to 
satiate. You shrink fi-om the extirpation of a whole people. Even 
suppose that, with an impunity as ignominious as it would be san- 
guinary, that horrible crime could be effected, then you must needs 
ask, ^ hat is to be done ? In answering that question you will not 
dismiss from your recollection that the greatest statesmen who have 
for the last fifty vears directed vour counsels and conducted the 
business of this mighty empire concurred in the opinion that with- 
out a concession of the Cathohc claims nothinsr could be done for 
Ireland. 

5 Ministers of the Protestant Church, established by law— and it might be added, with 
due reverence, the devil— in Ireland. 



Ruhard Lalor Shell. 491 

Burke, the foe to reTolution, Fox, the alerter of popular right, 
Pitt, the prop of the prerogative, concurred- With reference to this 
great question their minds met in a deep confluence. See to what a 
conclusion you must arrire when you denotince the advocates of 
emancipatioiL Your anathema will take in one-half of Westmin- 
ster Abbey ; and is not the very dust into which the tongues and 
hearts of Pitt, and BurkCj and Fox have mouldered better than the 
Uving hearts and tongues of those wlio have survived them ? If you 
were to try the question by the authorities of the dead, and by those 
voices which may be said to issue from the grave, how would you 
decide ? If, instead of counting votes in St, Stephen's, you were to 
count the tombs in the mausoleitm beside it, how would the division 
of the great departed stand ? There woidd be a majority of sepid- 
chres inscribed with immortal names upon our side. But suppos- 
ing that authority, that the coincidence of the wisest and of the 
best in favor of Ireland, was to be held in no account, consider how 
the rehgious disqualifications mtist necessarily operate. Can that 
be a wise c-otirse of government which creates not an aristocracy of 
opulence, and rank, and talent, but an aristocracy in religion, and 
places seven millions of people at the feet of a few hundred thou- 
sand ? Try this fashion of government by a very obvious test, and 
make the case your own. If a few hundred thousand Presbyterians 
stood towards yon in the relation in which the Irish Protestants stand 
towards the CathoHcs, would you endure it ? Wotdd you brook a sys- 
tem under which Episcopalians should be rendered incapable of 
holding seats in the House of Commons, should be excluded from 
sberifehips and corporate offices, and from the bench of justice, 
and from all the higher offices in the administration of the law ; and 
should be tried by none but Presbyterian juries, flushed with the 
insolence of power and infuriated with all the ferocity of passion ? 
How would you brook the degradation which would arise from such 
a system, and the scorn and contumelies which would flow from it ? 
Wotdd you listen with patience to men who told you that there was 
no grievance in all this, that your complaints were groimdless, and 
that the very right of murmuring ought to l>e taken away ? Are 
Irishmen and Koman Cathohcs so differentiy constituted from yotir- 
selves that they are to behold nothing but blessings in a system 
which you would look upon as an unendurable wrong ? 

Protestants and Englishmen, however debased you may deem our 
conntrv, believe me that we have enough of human nature left 



492 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

within us — we have enough of the ^Ani of manhood, all Irishmen 
as Ave are, to resent a usage of this kind. Its results are obvious. 
The nation is divided into two castes. The powerful and the pri- 
vileged few are patricians in religion, and trample upon and despise 
the plebeian Christianity of the millions who are laid prostrate at 
their feet. Every Protestant thinks himself a Catholic's better ; 
and every Protestant feels himself the member of a privileged cor- 
poration. Judges, sheriffs, crown counsel, crown attorneys, juries 
are Protestants to a man. What confidence can a Catholic have in. 
the administration of public justice ? We have the authority of an 
eminent Irish j iidge, the late Mr. Fletcher, who declared that in the 
North the Protestants were uniformly acquitted, and the Catholics 
were as undeviatingly condemned. A body of armed Orangemen 
fall upon and put to death a defenceless Catholic ; they are put 
upon their trial, and when they raise their eyes and look upon the 
jury, as they are commanded to do, they see twelve of their brethren 
in massacre em]oanelled for their trial ; and, after this, I shall be 
told that all the evils of Catholic disqualification lie in the disap- 
pointed longing of some dozen gentlemen after the House of Com- 
mons ! No ; it is the bann, the op|)robrium, the brand, the note 
and mark of dishonor, the scandalous partiality, the flagitious bias, 
the sacrilegious and perjured leaning, and the monstrous and hydra- 
headed injustice that constitute the grand and essential evils of the 
country. And you think it wonderful that we should be indignant 
at all this. You marvel and are amazed that we are hurried into 
the use of rash and vehement phrases. Have we alone forgotten 
the dictates of charity ? Have our opponents been always distin- 
guished by their meekness and forbearance ? Have no exasperating 
expressions, no galling taunts, no ferocious menaces ever escaped 
from them ? 

Look to the Brunswick orgies of Ireland, and behold not merely 
the torturers of '98, who, like retired butchers, feel the want of 
their old occupation and long for the political shambles again, but 
to the ministers of the G-ospel, by whom their libations to the 
Moloch of faction, in the revelries of a sanguinary ascendancy, are 
ferociously poured out. Make allowances for the excesses into 
which, with much provocation, we may be hurried, and pardon us 
when you recollect how, under the same circumstances, you would, 
in all likelihood, feel yourselves. Perhaps you will say that while 
ou are conscious that we have much to suffer, you owe it to your own 



RuJiard Lalor Shell. 493 

safetY to exclude us from power. We have power already — ^the 
power to do mischief ; gire us that of doing good, Di&arrav us — 
dissolye us — ^break up our confederacy — ^take from the law (the 
great conspirator) its combining and organizing quality, and we 
shall no longer be tmited by the bad chain of slavery, but by the 
natural bonds of allegiance and contentment. You fear otir possible 
influence in the House of Commons- Don't you dread our actual 
influence beyond its precincts ? Catholics out of the Hotise of Com- 
mons, we should be citizens within it. It has been sometimes insisted 
that we aim at the political exaltation of our Chtirch upon the rui^s 
of the E:^tablishment — that once emancipated we should proceed io 
strip yotir clergy, and to possess otirselves of the optilence of an anti- 
apostolic and an ti-scripttiral Establishment- Xever was there a more 
imf oimded imputation. The whole body of the Irish Catholics look 
upon a wealthy priesthood with abhorrence. They do not desire that 
their bishops should be iuTested with pontifical gorgeousness, When 
a bill was introduced in order to make a small, and no more than a 
decent, provision for the Catholic clergy, did they not repudiate the 
offer, and prefer their honorable porerty, and the affections of the 
people, to the seductions of the crown ? How did the people act ? 
Although a provision for the priesthood would relieve them from a 
burden, did they not deprecate all connection with power ? The 
Catholics of Ireland know that if their clergy were endowed with 
the wealth of the Establishment, they wotild become a profligate 
corporation, pampered with luxtiry, swelling with sacerdotal pride, 
and presenting in their liyes a monstrous contrast with that sim- 
plicity and that poverty of which they are now as well the practisers 
as the teachers. They know that in place of being, as they now 
are, the indefatigable instructors of the peasantry, their consolers in 
affliction, their resoure-e in calamity, their preceptors and their 
models in religion, their visitors in sickness, and their companions 
at the bed of death, they would become equally insolent to the 
humble and sycophantic to the great — flatterei^ at the noble's table 
and extortioners in the poor man's hoyel ; slares in pohtics and 
tyrants in demeanor, who from the porticoes of palaces wotdd gire 
their instructions in htimility : who from the banquets of patricians 
would prescribe their lessons in abstinence : and from the prim- 
rose i)ath of dalliance would jwint to the steep and thorny way to 
Heaven. Monstrous as the opulence of the Estabhshment now is, 
the people of Ireland would rather see the wealth of Protestant 



494 ^-^^ Pi'ose and Poetry of Irelaiid. 

bishops increased tenfold, and anotlier million of acres added to 
tlieir episcopal territories, than behold their ptire and sim^Dle priest- 
hood deoTaded from their illustrious hnmilitv to that dishonorable 
and anti-Christian ostentation which, if it were once established, 
would be sure to characterize their Church. I speak the sentiments 
of the whole body of my countrymen when I solemnly and emphati- 
cally reiterate mv asseveration that there is nothins: which the 
Eoman Catholic body would regard with more abhorrence than the 
transfer of the enormous and corrupting revenues of the Establish- 
ment to a clergy who owe their virtues to tlieir poverty, and the 
attachment of the peo2:)le to their dignified dependence tijoon the 
people for tlieir suj^port. 

I should have done: and yet before I retire from your presence 
indtilge me so far as to permit me to press one remaining topic upon 
you. I have endeavored to show yott that you have mistaken the 
character and political principles of my religion ; I have endeavored 
to make you sensible of the miserable condition of my country ; to 
imjDress upon you the failure of all the means which have been 
hitherto tried to tranquillize that itnhappy cotintry, and the neces- 
sity of adopting some expedient to alleviate its evils. I have dwelt 
npon the concurrence of great authorities in favor of concession, 
the little danger that is to be apprehended from that concession, 
and the great benefit which would arise from religious 2)eace in Ire- 
land. I might enlarge npon those benefits, and show you that when 
factions were reconciled, when the substantial catises of animosity 
were removed, the fierce passions which agitate the country would 
be laid at rest : that English ca^^ital would, in all likelihood, flow 
into Ireland ; that English habits Avould gTadually arise ; that a 
confidence in the administration of justice would grow up ; that the 
l^eople, instead of appealing to arms for redress, would look to the 
luiblic tribunals as the only arbiters of right ; and that the obsta- 
cles which now stand in the way of education would be removed ; 
that the fierceness of polemics would be superceded by that cliarity 
which the Christian extends to all mankind ; that a recij^rocal sen- 
timent of kindness would take place between the two islands ; that 
a real union, not depending upon acts of Parliament, but upon 
mutual interest and affection, would be permanently established ; 
that the empire would be consolidated, and all dangers from the 
enemies of Great Britain would disappear. I might ^Q>\\\t out to 
you, what is obvious enough, that if Ireland be allowed to remain 



Richai'd Lalor SJieiL 495 

as it now is, at do distant period tlie natural foes of Great Britain 
may make that tmforranate cotmtry the field of some formidahle 
enterprise. I might draw a pictnre of the consequences which 
would irrise if frti enormous ^wpulation were to be roused into a con- 
current and simultaneous movement : but I forbear from pressing 
such considerations upon you, because I had much rather rely upon 
your own lofty-mindedness than upon any terrible contingency. I 
therefore put it to you, that, independently of every consideration of 
expediency, it is unworthy of you to persevere in a system of prac- 
tical religious intolerance which Eoman Catholic states, who hold 
to you a fine example in this regard at least, have abandoned. I 
have heard it said that the CathoHc religion was a persecuting 
religion. How easily I could retort on you the charge of persecution 
— remind you that the early reformers, who set up a claim to liberty 
of conscience for themselves, did not indnlofe others in a similar 
luxury — tell you that Calvin, having obtained a theological master- 
dom in Geneva, offered up the screams of Servetus to the God of 
mercy and of love ; that even your own Cranmer, who was himself 
a martyr, had first inflicted what he af terwai'ds suffered, and that 
this father of your church, whose hand was indeed a guilty one, 
had, even in the reign of Edward the Sixth, accelerated the progress 
of heretics to immortality, and sent them through fii"e to Heaven. 
But the truth is that both parties have, in the jDaroxysms of reli- 
srious frenzv. committed the most execrable crimes, and it mio^ht be 
difficult, if their misdeeds were to be weighed, to adjust the balance 
of atrocity between them. But Catholics and Protestants have 
changed, and with the alteration of time we ourselves have 
undergone a salutaiy reformation. Tlirough the whole continent 
religious distinctions haxe begun to yanish, and freedom of con- 
science is almost universally established. It is deplorable that Eng- 
land should be almost the only country where such disquahfications 
are maintained. 

In Erance, where the rehgion of the state is that of Eome, all 
men ai-e admissible to power, and no sort of sectarian distinction is 
instituted by the law. The third article of the French charter pro- 
vides tJiat every French citizen, no matter of what denomination, 
shall be capable of holding every office in the state. The Chamber 
of Deputies is filled with Protestants, who are elected by Eoman 
Catholics ; and Protestants have held jilaces in the Cabinet of 
France. In Hungary, in the year 1T91, Protestants were placed by 



496 JJic Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

a Roman Catholic government on a perfect level with their fellow- 
citizens. In Bavaria the same jDrinciple of toleration was adopted. 
Thus the Catholics of Europe have given you an honorable example, 
and, while they have refuted the imputation of intolerance, have 
pronounced upon you a practical reproach. You are behind almost 
every nation in Euro^De. Protestant Prussia has emancipated her 
Catholic subjects, and Silesia is free. In Germany the churches 
are used indiscriminately by Protestants and Catholics — the Lutheran 
service, in haj^p}' succession, follows the Catholic Mass ; or the 
Catholic Mass follows the Lutheran service. Thus in every state in 
Europe the spirit of religious toleration has signally advanced, while 
here, in this noble island, which we are wont to consider the asylum 
of civil liberty, the genius of persecution has found a refuge. In 
England, and in England only, deprivations and dishonor are 
inflicted upon those whose conscience inhibits their conformity with 
the formulas of your worship; and a vast body of Englishmen in 
this one of yotir finest cotmties are called ujoon to offer up a gratui- 
tous invocation to the Leo'islature to rivet the fetters of their Catho- 
lie fellow-stibjects. Do not undertake so ungenerous an office, nor 
interpose for the low-hearted purposes of oj^pression. I have heard 
since I came here that it is a familiar saying that ^^ the men of 
Kent have never been conquered." That you will never be van- 
quished in any encounter where men shall be arrayed in arms 
against you is my belief and my desire ; but while in this regard 
you will always prove unconquered and unconquerable, there 
is one particular in which I hope that proof will be afforded that 
you can be subdued. Be no longer invincible, but let the victory 
be achieved by yourselves. The worst foes with which you have to 
contend are lodged in your own breasts — -your prejudices are the 
most formidable of your antagonists, and to discomfit them will 
confer upon you a higher honor than if in the shouts of battle you 
put your enemies to flight. It is over your antipathies, national 
and religious, that a masterdom should be obtained by you, and you 
may rest assured that if you shall vanquish your animosities, 
and bring your passions into subjection, you will, in conquering 
yourselves, extend your dominion over that country by which you 
have been so long resisted, your empire over our feelings will be 
securely established, you will make a permanent acquisition of the 
affections of Irishmen, and make our hearts vour own. 



Richard l^alor Shell. 497 

PEy.A2rD-ryK sketch of daxtel oconxell. 

;jr:- Siril's'^Sketdies of the Irish Bar," Tc^L] 

Ip any one _ a stranger in Dublin should chance, as you re- 

turn upon a winters moming from one of the ^* small and early"' 
parties,of that raking metropolis — that is to say. between the hours 
of fire and six o'clock — to pa^ along the south side of Merrion 
Square,* you will not fciil to observe that amoijg those splendid 
mansions there is one eyidently tenanted by a person whose habits 
differ materially from thosse of his fashionable neighbors. The half- 
open parlor shutter and the light within announce that some one 
dwells there whose time is too precious to permit him to regulate 
his rising with the sun. Should your cttric^ty tempt you to ascend 
the steps and under cover of the dark to reconnoitre the interior, 
you win see a tall, able-bodied man standing at a desk and im- 
mersed in sohtary occupation. Upon the wall in front of him there 
hangs a crucifix. From this and from the calm attitude of the 
person within, and from a certain monastic rotundity about his 
neck and shoulders, your first impression will be that he must be 
some pious dignitary of the Church of Eome absorbed in his matin 
devotions. 

But this conjecture will be rejected almost as soon as formed. 
Xo sooner can the eye take in the other fumittire of the apartment — 
the book-cases, clogged with tomes in plain cal^kin binding, the 
blue covered octavos that lie about on the tables and the floor, the 
reams of manuscript in oblong folds and begirt with crimson tape — 
than it becomes evident that the party meditating amid such objects 
must be thinking far more of the law than the prophets. He is 
uneqtiivocally a barrister, but apparently of that homely, chamber- 
keeping, plodding cast who labor hard to make up by assiduity what 
they want in wit, who are up and stirring before the bird of the 
moming has sounded the retreat to the wandering spectre, and are 
already brain-deep in the dizzy vortex of mortgages and cross-re- 
minders and mergers and remitters, while his clients, still lapped 
in sweet oblivion of the law~*s delay, are fondly dreaming that their 
cause is peremptorily set down for a final hearing. Having come 
to this conclusion, you push on for home, blesing your stars on the 
way that you are not a lawyer, and sincerely compa^onating the 

* Ctaie of tihe pEineqial sqoaies in Dolli^ T^rre OXVameU resided for about tldzfy 

jears- 



49 8 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

sedeutary drudge whom you have just detected in the performance 
of his cheerless toil. 

But should you hapj)en in the coui'se of the same day to stroll 
down to the Four Courts, you will not be a little surprised to find 
the object of your pity miraculously transferred from the severe re- 
cluse of the morning into one of the most bustling, important, and 
joyous jjersonages in that busy scene. There yoti will be sure to 
see him, his countenance braced ujd and glistening with health and 
spirits, with a huge, plethoric bag, which his robust arm can scarce- 
ly sustain, clasped with paternal fondness to his breast, and enyi- 
roned by a living palisade of clients and attorneys with outstretched 
necks, and mouths and ears agape to catch up any chance-opinion 
that may be coaxed out of him in a colloquial way, or listening to 
what the client relishes still better (for in no event can they be 
slided into a bill of costs), the connselloi*^s bursts of jovial and 
familiar humor, or, when he touches on a sadder strain, his pro- 
phetic assurance that the hour of Ireland's redemption is at hand. 
You perceive at once that you have lighted npon a great j)opular 
advocate ; and if you take the trouble to follow his movements for 
a couple of hours through the several courts, yon will not fail to 
discover the qualities that have made him so — his legal competency, 
his business-like habits, his sanguine temperament, which renders 
him not merely the advocate, but the partisan of his client, his acute- 
ness, his fluency of thought and language, his unconquerable good- 
liumor, and, above all, his versatility. 

By the hour of three, when the judges nsually rise, yon will have 
seen him go through a quantity of business the prej)aration for and 
the performance of which would be sufficient to wear down an ordi- 
nary constitution, and you naturally sup]30se that the remaining 
portion of the day must, of necessity, be devoted to recreation or 
repose. But here again you will be mistaken : for should you feel 
disposed, as yon return from the courts, to drop into any of the 
ptiblio meetings that are almost daily held for some purpose, 
or to no purpose, in Dublin,' to a certainty yon will find the coun- 
sellor there before you, the presiding sjiirit of the scene, riding in 
the whirlwind and directing the storm of j^opular debate with a 
strength of lungs and redundancy of animation as if he had that 
moment started fresh for the labors of the dav. There he remains 

" This sketch -was written in 1823, six years before Catholic emancipation was an ac- 
complished fact. 



Richard Lalor SJieil. 499 

until; by dint of strengtli or dexterity, he has carried every point ; 
and thence, if you would see him to the close of the davs ** eyent- 
ful history." you will, in all likelihood, haye to follow him to a pub- 
lic dinner from which, after having acted a conspicuous part in the 
turbulent festivity of the evening and thrown off half a dozen 
speeches in praise of Ireland, he retires at a late hour to repaii- the 
wear and tear of the day by a short interval of rejwse, and is sure 
to be found before daybreak next morning at his solitary post, recom- 
mencing the routine of his restless existence. Xow, any one who has 
once seen in the preceding situations the able-bodied, able-minded, 
acting, talking; multifarious person I have been just deseribiDg has 
no occasion to enquire his name. He may be assured that he is 
and can be no other than '*' Kerry^s pride and Munster's glory," the 
far-famed and indefatigable Da^tcel O'Coxxell. 

His frame is tall, expanded, and muscular, precisely such as l^e- 
fits a man of the people : for the physical classes ever look with 
double confidence and affection upon a leader wko represents in his 
own person the qualities upon which they rely. In his face he has 
been equally fortunate ; it is extremely comely. The features are 
at once soft and manly: the florid glow of health and a sanguine 
temperament is diffused over the whole countenance, which is na- 
tional in the outline, and beaming with national emotion. The ex- 
pression is open and confiding, and inviting confidence : there is 
not a trace of malignity or guile; if there were, the bright and 
sweet blue eyes, the most kindly and honest-looking that can be 
conceived, would repel the imputation. These popular gifts of na- 
ture O'Connell has not neglected to set off by his external carriage 
and deportment : or perhaps I should rather say that the same hand 
which has moiilded the exterior has suj)ersaturated the inner man 
with a fund of restless propensity which it, is quite beyond his 
power, as it is certainly beyond his inclination, to control. A large 
portion of this is necessarily expended upon his legal avocations : 
but the labors of the most laborious of professions cannot tame him 
into repose. After deducting the daily drains of the study and the 
courts, there remains an ample residuum of animal spirits and ardor 
for occupation, which go to form a distinct, and I might say a pre- 
dominant character — the political chieftain. 

The existence of this overweeniag vivacity is conspicuous in 
O'Connell's manners and movements, and being a popular, and more 
particularly a national, quality, greatly recommends him to the Irish 



500 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

people — '^ MohiUtate vigef' — body and sonl are in a state of per- 
manent insurrection. 

See liim in the streets and you perceive at once that he 
is a man who has sworn that his country's wrongs shall be 
avenged. A Dublin jury — if judiciously selected — would find 
his very gait and gestures to be high treason by construction, so 
explicitly do they enforce the national sentiment of '' Ireland her 
own, or the world in a blaze." As he marches to court, he shoulders 
his umbrella as if it were a pike. He flings out one factious foot 
before the other as if he had already burst his bonds and was kicking 
Protestant ascendancy before him, while ever and anon a demo- 
cratic, broad-shouldered roll of the upper man is manifestly an in- 
dignant effort to shuffle off " the oppression of seven hundred 
years." 

This intensely national sensibility is the preyailing peculiarity in 
O'Connell's character ; for it is not only when abroad and in the 
l^o^mlar gaze that Irish affairs seem to press on his heart. The 
same Erin-go-hragli feeling follows him into the most technical de- 
tails of his forensic occupations. Give him the most dry and 
abstract position of the law to support — the most remote that ima- 
gination can conceive from the violation of the Articles of Limerick, 
and, ten to one, he will contrive to interweave a patriotic episode 
upon those examples of British domination. The people are never 
absent from his thoughts. 



SKETCH OF DR. jVIURRAY, CATHOLIC ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLtN". 

[From "The Catholic Leaders " in SheiFs " Sketches of the Irish Bar," vol i.] 

Doctor Mureay, the present Archbishop of Dublin, was educa- 
ted in the University of Salamanca, but his mind is untarnished by 
the smoke of the scholastic lamp, and he has a spirit of liberty 
within him which shows how compatible the ardent citizen is with 
the enthusiastic priest. His manners are not at all Si)anish, although 
he passed many years in Spain under the tuition of Doctor Curtis, 
the Catholic primate, who was professor of theology in Salamanca. 

Dr. Murray is meek, composed, and j^lacid, and has an expression 
of patience, of sweetness, and benignity, united with strong intel- 
lectual intimations, which would fix the attention of any ordinary 
observer who chanced to see him in the public way. He has great 
dignity and simplicity of deportment, and has a bearing befitting 



Ruhard Lalo?- Shcil, 501 

his rankj without the least touch of arro2:ance. His voice is sin^ni- 
larly soft and harmouious. and even in reproof itself he does not 
put his Christian gentleness aside. His preaching is of the first 
order. It is difficult to hear his sermons upon charity Tdthout tears ; 
and there is, independently of the charms of diction and the 
graces of elocution, of which he is a master, an internal evidence 
of his own profound conyiction of what he utters that makes its 
way to the heart, When he stands in the pulpit it is no exas^sera- 
tion to say that he diffiises a kind of piety about him ; he seems to 
belong to the holy edifice, and it may be said of hJTn with perfect 
truth : 

** At ehnrch, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorned the venerable place." 

It is obTious that such a man, attended by all the influence which 
his office, his ablLities, and his apostolic life confer upon him, 
must have added great weight to the proceedings of the Association,' 
when, with a zeal in patriotism corresponding with his ardor in 
religion, he catised himseM to be enrolled among its members. 

*'The contemplation of the wrongs of mycotmtry," he exclaimed 
at a public meeting held in the beautiful and magnificent Catholic 
Cathedral in Marlborough Street, Dublin — ** the contemplation of 
the wrongs of my country makes my soul btim within me I ** 
As he spoke thus, he pressed to his heart the hand which the people 
were acctistomed to see exalted from the altar in raising the Host to 
Heaveiu Hi> fine countenance was inflamed with emotion, and his 
whole frame trembled under the dominion of the Yehement feeling 
by which he was excited.* 

^ The Cafcholie Association. 

» Tba Most BcT. Daniel >Inrray. D.D.. Archbishop of Dublin, died in lf6i He ^as a 
sort of Irish St. Francis de Sales. HiB published aemumsaze in two large Tol^inies. 



THOMAS MOORE. 

"In the quaUtr of a national Irish lyrist, Moore stands absolutely alone and 
Tinapproaohable." — Shaw.^ 

'' Of all the song-writers that ever warbled or chanted or sung, the b^t, in our 
estimation, is verily none other than Thomas Moore/'— Pkof. Welson.- 

" The genius of Moore must ever command admii-ation."— Archbishop Mac- 
Hale. 

THOMAS :N[00RE, "the sweet son of song" and "the poet of 
all circles," was born in Aungier Street, Dublin, on May 28, 
IT 79. His father was a respectable grocer and spirit- dealer, and 
both his parents were Catholics. The house in which he was born 
and reared still stands, the shop being devoted to the same unam- 
bitious department of commerce. 

Thomas began rhyming at so early an age that he was never 
able to fix the'date of his first effusions. Of him, as of the Catholic 
poet Pope, it might indeed be said : 

'• As yet a child, and all unknown to fame, 
He lisped in numbers, for the numbers came." 

He was but a mere lad when he indited the following to the editor 

of a Dublin magazine : 

" Sept. 11, ir93. 

'•' To the Editor of the Anthologim Hihernica : 

'' SiK : If the following attempts of a youthful muse seem worthy 
of a place in your magazine, by inserting them you will much 

obliofe a constant reader. 

'• Th— M— s M— RE." 

With this note two poems were enclosed. We give one : 

"a pastoral ballad. 

' ' My gardens are covered with flowers, 
My vines are aU loaded with grapes, 
Isature sports in my fountains and bowers, 
And assumes all her beautiful shapes. 

1 Shaw was an Englishman. - Wilson was a Scotchman. 

502 




in 






^ 



^ A 



Thomas Moore. 503 

*' The shepherds admire my lays, 

When I pipe they all flock to the song ; 
They deck me with laurels and bays, 
And list to me all the day long. 

" But their laurels and praises are vain, 
They've no joy or delight for me now ; 
For Celia despises the strain, 
And that withers the wreath on my brow." 

Those, certainly, are good lines for a boy of only fourteen. In due 
time they appeared in the magazine, and young Moore was de- 
lighted to see his productions in print. 

His first master was Mr. Sam.uel Whyte. This gentleman had a 
great taste for poetry and the drama, and our young poet soon be- 
came one of his favorite pupils, unlike the famous Richard Brins- 
ley Sheridan, who, before Moore's day, had received, as the most 
incorrigible of dunces, many and many a sound birching at the 
hands of Mr. Whyte. 

Moore's father was a warm and patriotic Irishman, and the son 
was not slow to catch the spirit of his parent. The times were 
stirring and dangerous. The French Revolution had shook Europe. 
Ireland but yearned for some opportunity to throw off the hated 
shackles in which English tyranny had bound her hand and foot. 
The United Irishmen — that band of gallant men — were daily grow- 
ing more restive. Moore was thus early initiated into rebellion ; in 
fact, his fellow-student and bosom friend was no other than Robert 
Emmett. He was a member of the patriotic debating-clubs and a 
contributor to the Press, the organ of the United Irishmen. One 
of his fiery letters was even noticed in Parliament. He was sus- 
pected, examined before the Vice-Chancellor, but nothing could be 
proved against him. His mother, a woman of excellent sense and 
judgment, now warned him to be j)rudent. Her advice prevailed, 
and perhaps saved the future author of the '^^ Irish Melodies " from 
the unhappy fate of the brave Robert Emmett. 

An act of Parliament in 1793 partly opened the doors of Dublin 
University to Catholics. The following year Moore entered Trinity 
College. He was a hard-working student whose diligence was 
crowned by success. ^^ And," says one of his biographers, "^ while 
engaged with his classics at the university, at home he was learning 
Italian from a priest, Erench from one of the many emigrants who 
sought refuge on our shores during that unhappy time for their 



504 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

o\m conntry, and pianoforte mnsic from his sisters teacher.'' In 
1T99 Moore left his famous Alma Mater, taking the degree of B.A. 

He at once staited for London, a translation of Anacreon"s Odes in 
his hands, with the intention of entering himself as a law student in 
the Middle TemjDle. In his translation of Anacreon Moore exhibits a 
Tery great extent of reading and no little proficiency in Greek phi- 
lology. He was also more lucky than most of the authors who have 
sought the mighty city with nothing but their brains for a fortune. 
In Lord Moira he found a kind friend. This nobleman obtained 
him i>ermissiou to dedicate his Odes to the Prince of Wales.' This 
was his first step on the road to fame and success. But it was fatal 
to his law studies, and Blackstone was thi'own aside for the Muses. 

In 1801 api>eared Moore's first volume of original verses. It was 
entitled "The Poetical Works of the late Thomas Little."' While 
there was much that was meritorious in this volume, it also con- 
tained many pieces quite loose and immoral in tone. In after-life 
Moore thought of "those productions with feelings of shame." 

In 1S03 our poet received an appointment under the Government 
as Registrar to the Court of Admiralty in the island of Bermuda. 
The following year he ai'rived at his post. In a few months, how- 
ever, he left a deputy to perform his duties, and began a tour 
thi-ough the United States and Canada. It appears there was 
only one city that pleased him in this EepubKc. Writing to his 
mother from Passaic Falls in June, ISO-t, he says : •'* The only jilace 
which I have seen that I had one wish to pause in was Philadel- 
phia." It is a pity he did not live to see it 1876. 

He wrote some fine pieces of poetry during this journey, as 
'"Alone by the Schuylkill," "Lines written at the Cohoes," the 
•' Canadian Boat- Song," and his letter in verse to his sister, Miss 
^loore, in which he says : 

" In days, my Kate, -when life was new, 
When lulled with innocence and you, 
I heard in home's beloved shade 
The din the world at distance made. 

'• Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea 
RoUs wide between that home and me ; 
The moon may thrice be born and die 
Ere even your seal can reach my eye." 

- Afterwards George IV. 



Tko7)ias Moore. 505 

There were no railroads or steamskips in those days, and eyen 
poets were obliged to moTe slowly along. 

Later in life, when referring to his American visit, he woidd 
boast of his introdnction to the illnstrions Thomas Jefferson, ex- 
claiming with enthusiasm : ** I had the honor of shaking hands with 
the man who wrote the Declaration of American Independence." 

In 1806 he published his ''Einstles, Odes, and other Poems. *' 
Jeffi'ey, in the EdinJjurgli Preview, treated the book with merciless 
seTeritT. Moore took mortal offence, and nothing bat blood could 
wash out the critic's crime. Moore challenged. Jeffrey felt bound 
to give him. satisfaction. A duel was the result, but the seconds 
managed to put no lead into the pistols, and, of course, there was 
nothing but smoke. The combatants were obliged to laugh. They 
shook hands, and to the end of their lives there were no more firm 
friends than Thomas Moore and Lord Jeffi-ey. 

A sneerinsr allusion of Lord Bvron in his ••EnorHsh Bards and 
Scotch Eeviewers " was nearly the cause of another dueL Moore 
demanded an apology. A dinner and some explanations made the 
affair all right. The intimacy thus began soon ripened into firm 
friendship. 

In 1807 Moore began his immortal ** Irish Melodies. ** ' One htm- 
dred and twenty-f otir in number, they were composed at intervals 
covering over a quarter of a century. Mr. Power, a musical pub- 
lisher, offered to pay him $2,500 a year during the time he wotild 
be occupied in composing them. Dr. E. S. Mackenzie computes 
that he received -$T5,000 for the ** Melodies.*' This is about -$30 a 
line. The musical accompaniments were supplied by Sir John 
Stephenson. "What Moore accompHshed by those matchless songs 
is thus truthfully and beautiftdly referred to by himself : 

" Bear harp of my conntry, in darkness I found thee. 
The cold chains of silence had hnng o'er thee long, 
When proudly, my o^mi island harp, I nnbound thee. 
And gave all thy cords to hght, freedom, and song.** 

''Of a theatrical turn,*' says one of his biograjDhers, '*' Moore 
acted well in private drama, in which the gentlemen were amateurs 
and the female parts were jiersonated by professional actresses. 

* Moore's " Irish Melodies " hare been translated into the principal languages of Eu- 
rope. They were also translated into Latin, and the Tenerable Archbishop ilacHale, 
great prelate and poet that he is, rendered them into the ancient and beantifnl language 
of IrelaDd. See sketch of Arcibishop MacHale. 



5o6 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland. 

Thus playing in a cast witli Miss Dykes, tlie daughter of an Irish 
actor, Moore fell in love with her and married her on the 25th of 
March, 1811.*' It is but right to add that this young lady proved 
a sensible, lovuig, and most devoted wife. Xever did the domestic 
hearth of a literary man exhibit a more perfect picture of household 
comfort. 

Moore now settled down to literature as a profession. '•' Lalla 
Eookh,*' ^ his charming versified Eastern romance, appeared in 181t. 
After this followed the ''Life of Sheridan*' ; ^'The Epicurean,'* a 
beautiful EgvjDtian tale of early Christian times; '^ Life of Bvron" ; 
*• Memoirs of Captain Eock " : ''Memoir of Lord Edward Eitzge- 
rald"; *'• Travels of an Irish Gentleman in search of a Religion"; 
^'History of Ireland," and various other productions. 

Durins: the last twentv-nine vears of his life Moore lived in the 
quiet secltision of Sloperton Cottage, near Devizes, England. Here, 
in 1832, he was visited by Gerald Grifl^, who had been commis- 
sioned by the electors of the city of Limerick to request Moore to 
stand for the representation of that city in Parliament. The j^oet 
declined. Griffin, in a letter to a lady friend, gives us a jDeej:) at the 
celebrated author of the ^' Irish Melodies ** at home. ' * In the morn- 
ing,'* he writes, ^'we^ set off to Sloperton; di-izzling rain, but a 
delightful country: such a gentle shower as that through which lie 
looked at Innisf alien — his farewell look. And we drove away until 
we came to a cottasre, a cottasie of 2:entilitv, with two cratewavs and 
pretty grounds about it. "We alighted and knocked at the hall-door; 
and there was dead silence, and we whispered one another; and my 
nerves thrilled as the wind rustled in the creeping shrubs that 
graced the retreat of Moore. I wonder I ever stood it at all, and I 
an Irishman, too. and sino-ino- Jiis sonsfs since I was the heisrht of 
my knee. The door opened and a young woman aj^peared. ''Is 
Mr. Moore at home ? ' ^ I'll see, sir. What name shall I say, sir ? * 

*• Well, not to be too particular, we were shown U2>stairs, where 
we found our hero in his studv, a table before him covered with 
books and papers, a di'awer half open and stuffed with letters, a 
piano, also open, at a little distance ; and the tliief himself, a little 
man, but full of spirit, with eyes, hands, feet, aud frame for ever in 
motion, looking as if it would be a feat for him to sit for three 
minutes quiet in his chair. I am no gi-eat observer of iiropoitious, 

^ This poem was translated into the Persian language. 
• GrifBn and'his brother. 



Thomas Moore. 507 

but lie seemed to me to be a neat made little fellow, tidily buttoned 
up, young as fifteen at heart, tliougli with hair that reminded me 
of the ^ Alps in the sunset ' ; not handsome, ^oerhaps, but something 
in the whole cut of him that pleased me ; finished as an actor, but 
without an actor's affectation ; easy as a gentleman, but without 
some gentlemen's formality ; in a word, as people say when they 
find their brains begin to run aground at the fag end of a magnifi- 
cent period, we found him a hos|)itable, warm-hearted Irishman, as 
j)leasant as could be himself, and disposed to make others so. ]^eed 
I tell you that we spent the day delightfully, chiefly in listening to 
his innumerable jests and admirable stories and beautiful similes, 
beautiful and original as those he throws into his songs and anec- 
dotes, that would make the Danes laugh ? " 

Moore's last years were unhappily clouded by mental infirmity. 
He died at Sloperton Cottage in February, 1852. 

That man must, indeed, be a soulless clod of earth who can read 
the ^^ Irish Melodies," or hear them sung, without feeling himself 
aroused to admiration. Is there anything in the literature of 
Europe or America to equal them? As an instance, take ^'^The 
Meeting of the Waters." The words are exquisitely beautiful, the 
calm sweetness of the melody touches the yery depths of the soul, 
and, when played, the music strikes the ear as something almost 
celestial. The entrancing beauty and grandeur of this solo, as once 
sung by a dear friend, yet lingers in our mind. The very memory 
of it is ^^ sweet and mournful to the soul." 

"The hour is yet near," said the eloquent Father Burke, O.P., 
^'when God gave to our native land its highest gift — a truly poetic 
child. When Ireland's poet came to find fame and immortality in 
Ireland, nothing was required of him but to take the ancient melo- 
dies floating in the land, to interpret the Celtic in which they were 
found into the language of to-day, and Tom Moore, Ireland's i^oet, 
might well say, as he took Erin's harp in his hand : 

' Dear harp of mj country, in darkness I found thee.' 

Ireland's poet was a lover of his country. He made every true 
heart and every noble mind in the world melt into sorrow at the 
contemplation of Ireland's wrongs, and the injustice that she suf- 
fered, as they came home to every sympathetic heart upon the 
"wings of Ireland's ancient melody." That the influence of Moore's 



^o8 The Prose a7td Poetry of Ireland, 

'' Irish Melodies " hastened CathoHc emancipation there can be no 
doubt. 

''' The 'Irish Melodies/ '' writes S. C. Hall, '^ must be considered 
as the most yaluable and enduring of all his works ; they 

• Circle his name with a charm against death/ 

and as a writer of song he stands without a rival. Moore found the 
national music of his country, with very few exceptions, debased 
by a union with words that were either unseemly or unintelligible. 
The music of Ireland is now known and appreciated all over the 
world, and the songs of the Irish j^oet will endure as long as the 
country, the loves and glories of which they commemorate.*' ^ 

'^The genius of Moore,-' says the illustrious Archbishop Mac- 
Hale, *''must ever command admiration. Its devotion to the vindi- 
cation of the ancient faith of Ireland and the character of its 
injured people must insj)ire every Irishman with still more 
estimable feelings. He seized the harp of Sion and Erin — at once 
the emblem of piety and patriotism — and gives its boldest and most 
solemn chords to his own impassioned inspirations of country and 
religion." ^ 

"^^The ^ Irish Melodies,'" writes Chambers, ''are full of true 
feeling and delicacy. By universal consent, and by the sure test of 
memory, these national strains are the most popular of all Moore's 
works. They are musical almost beyond parallel in words ; grace- 
ful in thought and sentiment ; often tender, pathetic, and heroic ; 
and they blend pathetical and romantic feelings with the objects 
and sympathies of common life in language chastened and refined, 
yet apparently so simpl-e that every trace of art has disappeared."' 

' " Gems of the Modem Poets." 

8 " Moore's Irish Melodies Translated into the Irish Language," preface. 

* " Cyclopaedia of English Literature," voL ii. 



Thomas Moore. 509 

SELECTIONS FROM MOORE. 

SOME IRISH MELODIES. 

THE MEETIXG OF THE TTATEKS/" 

[We place this first of all the "Irish Melodies," as a tribute of respect to its 
sweet and beautiful air.] 

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet 
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet ! " 
Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life mnst depart 
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. 

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene 
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 
'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill. 
Oh I no, it was something more exquisite still. 

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near. 
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear. 
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve 
When we see them reflected from looks that we love. 

Sweet vale of Avoca I how calm could I rest 

In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best. 

Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease. 

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace I 



THOUGH THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ££1:^" TTITH SOEEOW I SEE. 

Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see. 
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me ; 
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home. 
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam. 

To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore. 
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, 
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind 
Less rude than the foes we leave frowninsr behind. 



'o 



10 "The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beautiful scenery -which lies 
between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and these lines were sug- 
gested by a visit to this romantic spot in the summer of the year 1807. 

^^ The Eivers Aven and Avoca. 



5 1 o The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

And I'll gaze on thy gold liair, as graceful it wreathes, 
And hang o'er thy soft harp as wildly it breathes; 
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear 
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.' 



RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE." 

EiCH and rare were the gems she wore, 
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore ; 
But oh ! her beauty was far beyond 
Her sparkling gems or snow-white wand. 

" Lady, dost thou not 'ear to stray, 
So lone and lovely, through this bleak way ? 
Are Erin's sons so good or so cold 
As not to be tempted by woman or gold ? " 

*' Sir Knight, I feel not the least alarm, 
No son of Erin will offer me harm ; 
For though they love women and golden store. 
Sir Knight, they love honor and virtue more ! " 

On she went, and her maiden smile 
In safety lighted her round the Green Isle. 
And blest for ever is she who relied 
Upon Erin's honor and Erin's pride. 

12 In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII. an act was made respecting 
the habits and dress in general of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from 
being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing gltbbes or coulins (long locks) 
on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called crommeal. On this occasion a song was 
written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference to 
her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing locks) to all strangers (by which the Eng- 
lish were meant), or those who wore their habits. Of this song the air alone has reached 
us, and is universally admired (" Walker's Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards," p. 134). 
Mr. Walker informs us also that about the same period there were some harsh measures 
taken* against the Irish minstrels. 

13 This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote : " The people were inspired with 
such a spirit of honor, virtue, and religion by the great example of Brian, and by his ex- 
cellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great 
beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one 
end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a 
ring of exceeding great value ; and such an impression had the laws and government of 
this monarch made on the minds of all the people that no attempt was made upon her 
honor, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels (" Warner's History of Ireland," vol. i. 
iDook X.) 



Tho7nas Moore, 51 1 

WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE." 

Whex lie who adores thee has left but the name 

Of his fault and his sorrows behind, 
Oh I say wilt thou weep when they darken the fame 

Of a life that for thee was resigned ? 
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn. 

Thy tears shall efface their decree ; 
For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, 

I have been but too faithful to thee ! 

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love , 

Every thouofht of mv reason was thine : 
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above 

Thv name shall be minofled with mine ! 
Oh I blest are the lovers and friends who shall live 

The days of thy glory to see : 
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give 

Is the pride of thus dying for thee. 



THE HAEP THAT OXCE THROUGH TARA S HALLS. 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed, 
Xow hangs as mute on Tara's walls 

As if that soul were fled. 
So sleeps the pride of former days. 

So glory's thrill is o'er, 
And hearts that once beat high for praise 

]S'ow feel that pulse no more ! 

No more to chiefs and ladies bris^ht 

The harp of Tara swells ; 
The chord alone that breaks at night 

Its tale of ruin tells. 
Thus freedom now so seldom wakes ; 

The only throb she oives 
Is when some heart indignant breaks. 

To show that still she lives. 

^■* This, doubtless, refers to Robert Emmett. who addresses Erin, his loved but un 
happy covmtry. 



5 1 2 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 



KEMEMBER THE GLORIES OP BRIAN" THE BRAYE." 



Kemember tlie glories of Brian the brave. 

Though the days of the hero are o'er ; 
Though lost to Mononia/^ and cold in the grave. 

He returns to Kinkora ^'^ no more ! 
That star of the field, which so often has pour'd 

Its beam on the battle, is set ; 
But enough of its glory remains on each sword 

To light us to glory yet. 



Mononia, when nature embellished the tint 

Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair. 
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print 

The footstep of slavery there ? 
No, freedom ! whose smile we shall never resign, 

Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, 
'Tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine 

Than to sleep but a moment in chains ! 



Forget not our wounded companions who stood ^® 

In the day of distress by our side ; 
While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood. 

They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died ! 
The sun that now blesses our arms with his light 

Saw them fall upon Ossory's j)lain ! 
Oh ! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night. 

To find that they fell there in vain ! 



15 Brian Boru, the great monarch of Ireland, "who "was killed at the battle of Clontarf» 
in the beginning of the eleventh century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five 
engagements. 

i« Munster. ^'' The palace of Brian. 

IS This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the favorite 
troops of Brian, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf 
by Fitzpatrick, Prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be 
allowed to fight with the rest. " Let stakes,'''' they said, " 5e stucTc in the gi^ound, and suffer 
each of us, tied to and suppoi'ted 'by one of these stakes, to "be placed in his ranh by the side of a 
soundman.''^ "'Between sevenandeighthundred wounded men," adds O'Halloran, "pale, 
emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the 
troops ; never was such another sight exhibited " (" History of Ireland," book xii. chap, i.) 



. TJiomas Moo7'e. 513 

THE SOXG or nOXXUALA.'' 

SiLEXT, Moyle I be the roar of tliy water, 

Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose. 
While, murmuring mournfully; Lir's lonely daughter 

Tells to the nicrht-star her tale of woes. 
When shall the swan, her death-note singiug, 

Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd ? 
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing. 

Call my spirit from this stormy world ! 

Sadly, Moyle I to thy winter wave weeping. 

Fate bids me languish long ages away ! 
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping. 

Still doth the pure light its dawning delay 1 
When will that day-star, mildly springing. 

Warm our isle with peace and love I 
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing. 

Call my spirit to the fields above ? 



LET EEIX EEME:MBER THE DATS OF OLD. 

Let Erin remember the days of old. 

Ere her faithless sons betray'd her ; 
When Malachi wore the collar of gold " 

Which he won from her proud invader ; 
When her kings, with standard of green unfurl'd. 

Led the Eed-Branch Knights to danger ; ^' 
Ere the emerald gem of the western world 

Was set in the crown of a stranger. 

19 To make this story intelligible in a song would require a much greater number of 
verses than any one is authorized to inflict upon an audience at once ; the reader must 
therefore be content to learn in a note that Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some 
supernatural power, transformed into a swan, and condemned to wander, for many hun- 
dred years, over certain lakes and rivers of Ireland till the coming of Christianity, when, 
the first sound of the ilass-beU was to be the signal of her release, I found this fanciful 
fiction among some manuscript translations from the Irish, begun uzider the direction of 
the late Countess of Moira. 

20 '-This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the monarch of Ireland in the 
tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom 
he encountered successively hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, 
and carrying off the sword of the other, as trophies of his victory '' ('■ Warner's Hist. 
of Ireland " vol. i. book ix.j 

2^ Military orders of knights were very early established in Ireland. Long before the 



514 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

On Lough ISTeagli's bank as the fisherman strays, 

When the clear, cold eve's declining, 
He sees the round towers of other days 

In the wave beneath him shining ! 
Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime, 

Catch a glimpse of the days that are over. 
Thus, sighing, look through the wavGs of time 

For the long-faded glories they cover ! 



33 



BELIEYE ME, IF ALL THOSE EIsDEAEI:N^G YOUi^^G CHARMS. 

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms. 

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day. 
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, 

Like fairy-gifts fading away ! 
Thou wouldst still be adored as this moment thou art. 

Let thy loveliness fade as it will. 
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart 

Would entwine itself verdantly still. 



It is not while beauty and youth are thine own. 

And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear. 
That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known. 

To which time will but make thee more dear ! 
Oh ! the heart that l\as truly loved never forgets. 

But as truly loves on to the close. 
As the sunflower turns to her god when he sets 

The same look which she turn'd when he rose ! 



Ijirth of Christ we find an hereditary order of chivalry in Ulster called the Curaidfie na 
CraidbJie ^m,adh, or the Knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, 
adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kings, called Teagli na Craiobhe -iniadh, or the Aca- 
demy of the Red Branch, and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the 
sick knights and soldiers, caUed Bron-bhearg, or the house of the sorrowful soldier' , 
(" O'Halloran's Introduction," etc., part i. chap, v.) 

22 It was an old tradition in the time of Giraldus that Lough Neagh had been origin- 
ally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the count-ry was inundated, and a whole 
region, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says that the fishermen, in clear 
weather, used to point out to strangers the tall ecclesiastic towers under the water. 



Thomas Moore, 515 

EEIX I O ERIX ! 

Like the bright lamp that lay on Kilclare's holy shrine. 
And burn'd thi'ongh long ages of darkness and storm, 

Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in vain, 
"Whose spirit outlives them^ unfading and warm ! 

Erin I Erin I thus bright through the tears 

Of a long night of bondage thy spirit appears ! 

The nations have fallen, and thou still art yotmg, 

Thv sun is but risinsr when others are set ; 
And though slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung. 

The ftill moon of freedom shall beam round thee yet. 
Erin I Erin ! though long in the shade, 
Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade ! 

Unchill'd by the rain, and unwaked by the wind. 
The hly hes sleeping through the winters cold hour. 

Till the hand of sj^ring her dark chain luibind, 
And daylight and liberty bless the young flower. 

Erin I Erin I tliy winter is past, 

And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at last ! 



BEFOEE THE BATTLE. 

By the hope within us springing. 

Herald of to-moiTow's strife ; 
By that sun whose light is bringing 
. Chains or freedom, death or life. 
Oh I remember, life can be 
^o charm for him who hves not free ! 

Like the day-star in the wave. 

Sinks a hero to his grave. 
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears ! 

Blessed is he o'er whose dechne 
The smiles of home may soothing shine. 
And light him down the steep of years ; 
But, oh I how gi'and they sink to rest 
Who close their eves on victorv's breast ! 



5i6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

O'er his watcli-fire's fading embers 
Xow the foeman's check turns white, 

"Wliile his heart that field remembers 
Where we dimm'd his glory's light ! 

Never let him bind again 

A chain like that we broke from then. 

Hark I the horn of combat calls ; 

Oh ! before the CTening falls 
May we j^ledge that horn in triumph round I " 

Many a heart that now beats hiofh 
In slumber cold at night shall lie, 
K^or waken even at victory's sound ; 
But, oh I how blest that hero's sleep 
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep ! 



AFTER THE BATTLE. 

KiGHT closed around the conqtteror's way. 
And li^htnino: show'd the distant hill, 

CO ' 

"Where those who lost that dreadful day, 
Stood few and faint, but fearless still — 

The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal. 
For ever dimm'd for ever crost ; 

Oh I who shall say what heroes feel 
When all but life and honors lost ? 

The last sad hour of freedom's dream 

And valor's task moved slowly by. 
While mute they watch'd till morning's beam 

Should rise and ofive them lisfht to die ! 
There is a world where sotils are free, 

Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss ; 
If death that world's bright opening be. 

Oh ! who would live a slave in this ? 

-' " The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages 
our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this 
day."— TTafilvr. 



Thomas Moore, 517 

ox MUSIC. 

When through life unblest we rove. 

Losing all that made life dear. 
Should some notes we used to love 

In days of boyhood meet our ear. 
Oh ! how welcome breathes the strain ! 

Wakening thoughts that long have slept; 
Kindling former smiles again 

In faded eyes that long have wept ! 

Like the gale that sighs along 

Beds of Oriental flowers 
Is the grateful breath of song 

That once was heard in happier hours ; 
Pill'd with balm the gale sighs on. 

Though the flowers have sunk in death ; 
So, when pleasure's dream is gone 

It's memory lives in music's breath ! 

Music ! oh ! how faint, how weak. 

Language fades before thy spell ! 
Why should feeling ever speak 

When thou canst breathe her soul so well ? 
Friendship's balmy words may feign. 

Love's are even more false than they ; 
Oh ! 'tis only music's strain 

Can sweetly soothe and not betray ! 



I SAW THY FOR:\r IX YOUTHFUL PKI^kTE. 

I SAW thy form in youthful prime, 

i^or thought that pale decay 
Would steal before the steps of time 

And waste its bloom away, Mary ! 
Yet still thv features Avore that lio^ht 

Which fleets not with the breath ; 
And life ne'er look'd more purely bright 

Than in thv smile of death, Marv I 



5 1 8 The Prose and Poetry of Irelajid. 

As streams that run o'er golden mines 

With modest murmur glide, 
Nor seem to know the wealth that shines 

Within their gentle tide, Mary ! 
So, yeil'd beneath the simple guise. 

Thy radiant genius shone. 
And that which charm'd all other eyes 

Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary I 

K souls could always dwell above, 

Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere ; 
Or could we keep the souls Ave love. 

We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary ! 
Though many a gifted mind we meet. 

Though fairest forms we see. 
To live with them is far less sweet 

Than to remember thee, Mary ! 



THE SHAMROCK ! 

Through Erin's Isle, 

To sj)ort awhile. 
As Love and Valor wander'd. 

With Wit, the sprite. 

Whose quiver bright 
A thousand arrows squander'd ; 

Where'er they pass 

A triple grass ""^ 
Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming, 

As softly green 

As emeralds seen 
Through purest crystal gleaming ! 
the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock ! 

Chosen leaf 

Of bard and chief. 
Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 

'4 Saint Patrick is said to have made use of that species of the trefoil to wliioh in Ire- 
land we give the name of Shamrock in explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the pagan. 
Irish. I do not know if there be any other reason for our adoption of this plant as a 
national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented asabeauti- 
Ixil child, ' ' standing upon tip-toes and a trefoil or three-colored grass in her hand." 



TJiomas Moore, 519 

Sets Valor : ••' See, 

They spring for me. 
Those leafy gems of morning I ** 

Says Love : *' Xo, no. 

For riie they gi'ow. 
My fi'agi-anT path adorning ! " 

But TVit perceives 

The triple leaves. 
And cries : '*' Oh I do not sever 

A type that blends 

Thi*ee godlike friends. 
Love, Yalor, Wit, for ever I " 
the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock ! 

Chosen leaf 

Of bard and chief. 
Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 



THE LAST EOSE OF StnOTER. 

Tis the last rose of summer. 

Left blooming alone ; 
All her lovely companions 

Ai'e faded and gone : 
Xo flower of her kindi'ed, 

Xo rosebud is nigh 
To reflect baek her blushes. 

Or give sigh for sigh ! 



Ill not leave thee, thou lone one. 

To pine on the stem ; 
Since the lovely are sleeping. 

Go, sleep thou with them ; 
Thus kindly I scatter 

Thy leaves o'er the bed. 
Where thy mates of the garden 

Lie scentless and dead. 



^20 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

So soon may 1 follow, 

TTlieu fi'ieudsliips decay, 
And from love's shining circle 

The gems drop a way I 
When ti'ue hearts Ke wither d. 

And fond ones are flown. 
Oh I who wonld inhabit 

This bleak world alone ? 



THE MIXSTEEL EOT. 

The minstrel boy to the war has gone. 

In the ranks of death you'll find him. 
His fathers sword he has srirded on. 

And his wild harp slnng behind him. 
'• Land of song I *' said the warrior bard, 

'•' Though all the world betrays thee, 
Oiie sword, at least, thy rights shall guard. 

One faithful harp shall praise thee ! '*' 

The minstrel fell I but the f oeman's chain 

Could not bring his proud soul under ; 
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again. 

For he tore its chords asunder ; 
And said, ** Xo chains shall sully thee, 

Thou soul of love and bravery ! 
Thy songs were made for the pure and free. 

They shall never sound in slavery ! " 



DEAR HAEP OF 3IY COUXTEY. 

Deae Harp of my country I in darkness I found thee. 

The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long. 
When proudly, my own Island Harp I I unbound thee. 

And 2:ave all thv chords to li2:ht, freedom, and sonsc ! 
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness 

Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thi'ill ; 
But so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of sadness, 

That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. 



TJi07}uis Moore. 521 

Dear Harp of my country I farewell to thy numbers, 

This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine ; 
Gro, sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers. 

Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine. 
If the puke of the patriot, soldier, or lover 

Has throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone : 
I was hut as the wind passing heedlessly over, 

And all the wild sweetness I waked was thv own. 



A CA2f ADIAX BOAT-SOXG. 

Written on the Biver St. Lawrence, 

Fatstlt as tolls the evening chime. 
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time ; 
Soon as the woods on the shore look dim. 
We'll sing at St. Anns our parting hymn. 
Eow, brothers, row, the stream runs fast. 
The rapids are near and the daylight's past ! 

Why should we yet our sail unfurl ? 
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl ! 
But when the wind blows off the shore. 
Oh ! sweetly w'ell rest our weary oar. 
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast. 
The rapids are near and the daylight's past ! 

Ouawa's tide I this trembling moon 
Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 
Saint of this green isle I hear our prayers. 
Oh ! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs. 
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near and the daylight's past ! 



SOME HACRED SOXGS. 
WEEE XOT THE SIXFUL MAET'S TEABS, 

Were not the sinful Mary's tears 
An offering worthy Heaven, 

When o'er the faidts of former years 
She wept — and was forgiven : 



C22 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

When, bringing every balmy sweet 

Her day of luxury stored, 
She o'er her Saviour's hallow'd feet 

The precious perfume pour'd ; 

And wiped them with that golden hair 
Where once the diamonds shone ; 

Though now those gems of grief were there 
Which shine for G-od alone. 

Were not those sweets, though humbly shed- 
That hair, those weeping eyes. 

And the sunk heart that inly bled — 
Heaven's noblest sacrifice ? 

Thou that hast slept in error's sleep, 
Oh ! wouldst thou wake in Heaven, 

Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep, 
" Love much," " and be forgiven. 



THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETIKG SHOW. 

This world is all a fleeting show. 

For man's illusion given ; 
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe. 
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow — 

There's nothing true but Heaven. 

And false the light on glory's plume, 

As fading hues of even ; 
And love and hope and beauty's bloom 
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb — 

There's nothing bright but Heaven. 

Poor wand'rers of a stormy day, 

From wave to wave we're driven. 
And fancy's flash and reason's ray 
Serve but to light the troubled way — 
There's nothing calm but Heaven. 

25 "Her sins, which are many, are forgiven ; for she loved, much.'"— ZmA;^ vil. 42. 



Thomas Moore, 523 

O THOU WHO DRY'sT THE MOUEXER'S TEAR ! 
"He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds." — ^P«aZ»i cxlvii. 3. 

Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear ! 

How dark this world would be, 
If, when deceived and wounded here. 

We could not fly to thee ! 
The friends who in our sunshine live 

When winter comes are flown. 
And he who has but tears to give 

Must weep those tears alone. 
But thou wilt heal that broken heart 

"VThich, like the plants that throw 
Their fragrance from the wounded part, 

Breathes sweetness out of woe. 

When joy no longer soothes or cheers. 

And even the hope that threw 
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears 

Is dimm'd and vanish'd too. 
Oh ! who would bear life's stormy doom. 

Did not thy wing of love 
Come brightly wafting through the gloom 

Our peace-branch from above I 
Then sorrow, touch'd by thee, grows bright 

With more than rapture's ray ; 
As darkness shows us worlds of light 

We never saw by day. 



THOU ART, O GOD ! 

*' The day is thine, the night also is thine ; thou hast prepared the light of the sun. Thou 
hast set all the borders of the earth : thou hast made summer and winter."— P«a^m Ixxiv. 

Thou art, God ! the life and hght 
Of all this wond'rous world we see ; 

Its glow by day, its smile by night, 
Are but reflections cauo^ht from thee. 

Where'er we turn thy glories shine. 

And all things fair and bright are thine. 



524 TJie Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

When day, with farewell beam, delays 
Among the op'ning clouds of even. 

And we can almost think we sraze 
Through golden vistas into heaven — 

Those hues that make the sun's decline 

So soft, so radiant, Lord, are thine. 

When night, with wings of starry gloom. 
O'er shadows all the earth and skies. 

Like some dark, beauteous bird whose pltime 
Is sparkling with unnumljer d eyes — 

That sacred gloom, those fii'es divine. 

So grand, so countless. Lord, are thine. 

When youthful spring ai'ound us breathes. 
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; 

And every flower the summer wreathes 
Is bom beneath that kindling eve. 

Where'er we rum thy glories shine. 

And all things fair and bright ai'e thine ! 



THE BIED LET LOOSE. 

The bird let loose in eastern skies,** 

When hast'ning fondly home, 
Xe'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies 

Where idle warblers roam ; 
But high she shoots through air and light. 

Above all low delay. 
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, 

Xor shadow dims her way. 

So grant me, God, from every care 
And stain of passion free. 

Aloft, through virtue's^uref air. 
To hold my course to thee ! 

"• The carrier-pigeon, it is well kno-wn. flies at an elevated pitch, in order to sarmoniit 
every obstacle befween her and the place to which she is destined. 



Thomas Moore. 

Xo sin to cloud, no liu'e to stay 
My soul, as home she springs ; 

Thy sunshine on her joyful way, 
Thy freedom in her wings I 



525 



THE EPKJTEEAX. 

A TALE. 



A Letter to the Translator, from , Esq. 

Cairo, Jime 19, 1800. 
My dear Sm : 

During a visit lately paid by me to the Monastery of St. Macarius — which is 
situated, as you know, in the Valley of the Lakes of Xatron — I was lucky enough 
to obtain possession of a curious G-reek manuscript, which, in the hope that you 
may be induced to translate it, I herewith transmit to you. 

Tou will find the story, I think, not altogether uninteresting ; and the coin- 
cidence, in many respects, of the curious details in Chap. Xl. with the descrip- 
tion of the same ceremonies in the romance of '' Sethos " will, I have no doubt, 
strike you. Hoping that you may be induced to give a translation of this tale to 
the world, 

I am, my dear sir. 

Very truly yours, 



THE EPICUEEAX. 
CHAPTER I. 

It was in the foiuth year of the reign of the late Emperor Vale- 
rian '■ that the followers of EpicuraS; who were at that time nume- 
rous in Athens, j^roceeded to the election of a j^erson to fill the 
vacant chair of their sect, and, by the unanimous voice of the 
school, I was the individual chosen for" their chief. I was just 
then enterino^ on my twentv-fourth vear. and no instance had ever 
before occurred of a person so young being selected for that high 
office. Youth, however, and the joersonal advantages that adorn it, 
cotild not but rank amons: the most asfreeable recommendations to 
a sect that included within its circle all the beauty as well as the 
wit of Athens, and which, though dignifying its pursuits with the 

^- Valerian began his reign a.d. 253. 



526 The Prose and Poetiy of Ireland, 

name of pliilosopliy, was little else tlian a plausible pretext for the 
more refined cultivation of pleasure. 

The character of the sect had. indeed, much changed since the 
time of its wise and virtuous founder, who, while he asserted that 
jileasure is the only good, inculcated also that good is the only 
source of pleasure. The purer part of this doctrine had long eva- 
porated, and the temperate Epiciu'us would have as httle recognized 
his own sect in the assemblage of refined volupttiaries who now 
usurped its name as he would have known his own quiet garden in 
the luxurious groves and bowers among which the meetings of the 
school were now held. 

Many causes concurred at this period, besides the attractiveness of 
its doctrines, to render our school by far the most popular of any 
that still survived the glory of Greece. It may generally be 
observed that the prevalence in one-half of a community of very 
rigid notions on the subject of religion produces the opposite 
extreme of laxity and infidelity in the other, and this kind of 
reaction it was that now mainly contributed to render the doctrines 
of the garden the most fashionable j^hilosophy of the day. 
The rapid progi*ess of the Chi'istian faith had alarmed all those 
who, either from i^iety or worldhness, were interested in the con- 
tinuance of the old established creed — all who believed in the deities 
of Olympus, and all who lived by them. The natural consequence 
was a considerable increase of zeal and activity throughout the 
constituted authorities and j^riesthood of the whole heathen world. 
What was wanting in sincerity of belief was made up in rigor : the 
weakest parts of the mythology were those, of cotirse, most angiily 
defended, and any reflections tending to bring Saturn or his wife. 
Ops, into contempt, were i^^-i^nished with the utmost severity of the 
law. 

In this state of affairs between the alarmed bigotry of the declin- 
ing faith and the simple, subhme austerity of her rival, it was not 
wonderful that those lovers of ease and pleasure who had no inte- 
rest, reversionaiw or otherwise, in the old relisfion, and were too 
indolent to enquire into the sanctions of the new, should take refuge 
from the severities of both in the arms of a luxurious philosophy, 
which, leaving to others the task of disputing about the future, 
centred aU its wisdom in the full enjoyment of the jDresent. 

The sectaries of the garden had, ever since the death of theu' 
founder, been accustomed to dedicate to his memorv the twentieth 



Thomas Moore. 527 

day of GTery montli. To these monthly rites had for some time 
been added a grand annual festival, in commemoration of his birth. 
The feasts given on this occasion by my predecessors in the chair 
had been invariably distinguished for their taste and splendor, and 
it was my ambition not merely to imitate this example, but even to 
render the anniversary now celebrated under my auspices so lively 
and brilliant as to efface the recollection of all that had pre- 
ceded it. 

Seldom, indeed, had Athens witnessed so bright a scene. The 
gi'ounds that formed the original site of the garden had received, 
from time to time, considerable additions, and the whole extent 
was now laid out with that perfect taste which understands how to 
wed nature with art without sacrificing any of her simplicity to the 
alliance. Walks leadinsr throuo-h wildernesses of shade and fra- 
gi'ance, glades opening as if to afford a playground for the sunshine, 
temples rising on the very spots where Imagination herself would 
have called them up, and fountains and lakes in alternate motion 
and repose, either wantonly courting the verdure or calmly sleej^ing 
in its embrace — such was the variety of feature that diversified these 
fair gardens ; and animated as they were on this occasion by all the 
living wit and loveliness of Athens, it afforded a scene such as my 
own youthful fancy, rich as it was then in images of luxury and 
beauty, could hardly have anticipated. 

The ceremonies of the day began with the very dawn, when, ac- 
cording to the form of simpler and better times, those among the 
disciples who had apartments within the garden bore the image of 
our founder in procession from chamber to chamber, chanting verses 
in praise of what had long ceased to be objects of our imitation — his 
frtigality and temperance. 

JRound a beautiful lake in the centre of the ararden stood four 
white Doric temples, in one of which was collected a library con- 
taining all the flowers of Grecian literature, while in the remaining 
three conversation, the song, and the dance held, uninterrupted by 
each other, their respective rites. In the library stood busts of all 
the most illustrious Epicureans, both of Eome and Greece — Horace, 
Atticus, Pliny the elder, the poet Lucretius, Lucian, and the 
lamented biographer of the philosophers, lately lost to us, Diogenes 
Laertius. There were also the j)ortraits in marble of all the eminent 
female votaries of the school — Leontium and her fair daughter 
Danae, Themista, Philsenis, and others. 



528 The Prose and Poetry of Irela^id. 

It was here that in my capacity of Heresiarcli, on the morninof 
of the festival, I received the felicitations of the day fi-om some of 
the fairest lips of Athens : and. in pronouncing the ctistomary ora- 
tion to the memoiy of onr Master (in which it was usual to 
dwell upon the docti^ines he had inculcated), endeavored to attain 
that art, so useful before such an audience, of lending to the gi'avest 
subjects a charm, which secures them, listeners even among the 
simjDlest and most volatile. 

Though study, as may be supposed, engrossed but little the nights 
or mominsrs of the srarden, vet all the lisfhter paints of leamins" — 
that portion of its attic honey for which the bee is not compelled 
to go very deep into the flower — was somewhat zealously cultivated 
by us. Even here, however, the young student had to encounter 
that kind of distraction which is, of all others, the least favorable 
to comj)osure of thought ; and with more than one of mv fair dis- 
ciples there used to occur such scenes as the following, which a ix)et 
of the garden, taking his 2:>icture from the life, thus described : 

" As o'er the lake, in evening-'s glow, 

That temple threw its lengthening shade, 
Upon the marble steps below 

There sate a fair Corinthian maid, 
Gracefullr o'er some volnine bending ; 

"While by her side the youthftd Sage 
Held back her ringlets, lest, descending, 

Thev should o'ershadow all the page. ' ' 

But it was for the evening of that day that the richest of our 
luxuries were reserved. Every part of the garden was illuminated, 
with the most skilful variety of lustre, whjle over the Lake of the 
Temples were scattered wreatlis of flowers, throtigh which boats, 
filled with beautiful children, floated as through a liquid j)arterre. 

Between two of these boats a mock combat was perpetually car- 
ried on, their respective commanders, two blooming youths, being 
habited to represent Eros and Anteros — the former the Celestial Love 
of the Platonists, and the latter that more earthly spirit which usuq^s 
the name of Love among the Epicureans. Throughout the whole 
evening their conflict was maintained with various success, the 
timid distance at which Eros kept aloof from his lively antagonist 
beinsT his onlv safe^ruard asfainst those darts of fire, with showers of 
which the other assailed him, but which, falling short of their mark 



Thomas Moore. 529 

upon the lake, only scorched the few flowers on which they fell and 
were extingnishecL 

In another part of the gardens, on a wide glade, illuminated only 
hv the moon, was performed an imitation of the torch-race of the 
Panathenaea by young boys chosen for their fleetness and arrayed 
with wings like cui3ids ; while, not far off, a group of seven nymphs, 
with each a star on her forehead, represented the movements of the 
j^lanetary choir, and embodied the dream of Pythagoras into real 
motion and song. 

At every turning some new enchantment broke unexpectedly on 
the eye or ear ; and now, from the depth of a dark grove, from 
which a fountain at the same time issued, there came a strain of 
sweet music, which, mingling with the murmur of the water, 
seemed like the voice of the spirit that presided over its flow ; while 
at other times the same strain appeared to come breathing from 
among flowers, or was heard suddenly from underground, as if the 
foot had just touched some spring that set its melody in motion. 

It may seem strange that I should now dwell uj^on all these 
trifling details ; but they were to me full of the future, and every- 
thing connected with that memorable night — even its long-repented 
follies — must forever live fondly and sacredly in my memory. The 
festival concluded with a banquet, at which, as master of the sect, 
I presided, and being myseK, in every sense, the ascendant sj^irit of 
the whole sce^ie, gave life to all around me, and saw my own happi- 
ness reflected in that of others. 



CHAPTER n. 

The festival was over; the sounds of the song and dance had 
ceased, and I was now left in those luxurious gardens alone. 
Though so ardent and active a votary of pleasure, I had, by nature, 
a disposition full of melancholy — an imagination that, even in the 
midst of mirth and happiness, presented saddening thoughts and 
threw the shadow of the future over the gayest illusions of the 
present. Melancholy was, indeed, twin-born in my soul with pas- 
sion, and not even in the fullest fervor of the latter were they ever 
separated. From the first moment that I was conscious of thought 
aud feeling the same dark thread had run across the web, and im- 
ages of death and annihilation came to mingle themselves with even 
the most smiling scenes through which love and enjoyment led me. 



530 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

My very passion for pleasure but deepened these gloomy tliouglits. 
For, shut ont, as I was by my creed, from a future life, and liaving 
no hope beyond the narrow horizon of this, every minute of earthly 
delight assumed, in my eyes, a mournful preciousness, and pleasure, 
like'the flower of the cemetery, grew but more luxuriant from the 
neighborhood of death. 

This very night my triumph, my happiness, had seemed com- 
plete. I had been the presiding genius of that yoluptuous scene. 
Both my ambition and my love of pleasure had drunk deep of the 
rich cup for which they thirsted. Looked up to as I was by the 
learned, and admired and loved by the beautiful and the young, I 
had seen in every eye that met mine either the acknowledgment 
of bright triumphs already won, or the promise of others still 
brighter that awaited me. Yet, even in the midst of all this, the 
same dark thoughts had presented themselves ; the perishableness 
* of myself and all around me had recurred every instant to my 
mind. Those hands I had pressed, those eyes in which I had seen 
sparkling a spirit of light and life that ought never to die, those 
voices tnat had spoken of eternal love, all, all I felt were but a 
mockery of the moment, and would leave nothing eternal but the 
silence of their dust ! 

Oh ! were it not for this sad voice, 

Stealing amid our mirth to say 
That all in which we most rejoice 

Ere night may be the earth-worm's prey 
But for this bitter— only this— 
Full as the world is brimm'd with bliss, 
And capable as feels my soul 
Of draining to its depth the whole, 
1 should turn earth to heaven, and be. 
If bliss made gods, a deity ! 

Such was the description I gave of my own feelings in one of those 
wild, passionate songs to which this mixture of mirth and melan- 
choly in a spirit so buoyant naturally gave birth. 

And seldom had my heart so fully surrendered itself to this sort 
of vague sadness as at that very moment when, as I paced thought- 
fully among the fading lights and flowers of the banquet, the echo 
of my own step was all that now sounded where so many gay forms 
had lately been revelling. The moon was still up, the morning had 
not yet glimmered, and the calm glories of the night still rested on 



TkoTnas Moore. 531 

all around. Unconscious whither my pathway led, I continued to 
wander along, till I at length found myself before that fair statue of 
Venus with which the chisel of Alcamenes had embellished our 
garden — that image of deified woman/ the only idol to which I had 
ever yet bent the knee. Leaning against the j)edestal of the statue, 
I raised my eyes to heaven, and, fixing them sadly and intently on 
the ever-burning stars, as if seeking to read the mournful secret in 
their light, asked wherefore was it that man alone must fade and 
perish, while they, so much less wonderful, less god-like than lie, 
thus still lived on in radiance unchangeable and forever ! " Oh ! 
that there were some spell, some talisman,'' I exclaimed, ^'^to make 
the spirit that burns within us deathless as those stars, and open to 
it a career like theirs, as bright and inextinguishable throughout all 
time!" 

While thus indulging in wild and melancholy fancies, T felt that 
lassitude which earthly pleasure, however sweet, still leaves behind 
come insensibly over me, and at length sunk at the base of the 
statue to sleep. 

But even in sleep the same fancies continued to haunt me, and a 
dream, so distinct and vivid as to leave behind it the impression of 
reality, thus presented itself to my mind. I found myself suddenly 
transj)orted to a wide and desolate plain, where nothing appeared to 
breathe, or move, or live. The very sky that hung above it looked 
pale and extinct, giving the idea, not of darkness, but of light that 
had become dead ; and had that whole region been the remains of 
some older world, left broken up and sunless, it could not have pre- 
sented an aspect more quenched and desolate. The only thing that 
bespoke life throughout this melancholy waste was a small s|)ark of 
light, that at first glimmered in the distance, but at length slowly 
approached the bleak spot where I stood. As it drew nearer I 
could see that its small but steady gleam came from a taper in the 
hand of an ancient and venerable man, who now stood, like a pale 
messenger from the grave, before me. After a few moments of 
awful silence, during which he looked at me with a sadness that 
thrilled my very soul, he said : *^' Thou who seekest eternal life, go 
unto the shores of the dark Nile — go unto the shores of the dark 
Is^ile, and thou wilt find the eternal life thou seekest ! " 

No sooner had he uttered these words than the deathlike hue of 
his cheek at once brightened into a smile of more than earthly 
promise, while the small torch he held in his hand sent forth a 



532 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

glow of radiance by which suddenly the whole surface of the desert 
was illuminated^ the light spreading even to the distant horizon's 
edge, along whose line I could now see gardens, palaces, and spires, 
air as bright as the rich architecture of the clouds at sunset. Sweet 
music, too, came floating in every direction through the air, and 
from all sides such varieties of enchantment broke upon me that, 
with the excess alike of harmony and of radiance, I awoke. 

That infidels should be superstitious is an anomaly neither un- 
usual nor strange. A belief in superhuman agency seems natural 
and necessary to the mind, and if not suffered to flow in the obvious 
channels, it will find a vent in some other. Hence, many who have 
doubted, the existence of a God have yet implicitly placed them- 
selves under the patronage of fate or the stars. Much the same 
inconsistency I was conscious of in my own feelings. Though re- 
jecting all belief in a divine Providence, I had yet a faith in dreams 
that all my philosophy could not conquer. Nor was experience 
wanting to confirm me in my delusion ; for, by some of those acci- 
dental coincidences which make the fortune of soothsayers and 
prophets, dreams, more than once, had been to me — 

Oracles, truer far than oak, 
Or dove, or tripod, ever spoke. 

It was not wonderful, therefore, that the vision of that night — 
touching, as it did, a chord so ready to vibrate — should have affected 
me with more than ordinary power, and even sunk deeper into my 
memory with every effort I made to forget it. In vain did I mock 
at my own weakness ; such self-derision is seldom sincere. In vain 
did I pursue my accustomed j)leasures. Their zest was, as usual, 
for ever new; but still, in the midst of all my enjoyment, came the 
cold and saddening consciousness of mortality, and with it fche re- 
collection of that visionary promise to which my fancy, in defiance 
of reason, still continued to cling. 

At times indulging in reveries that were little else than a continu- 
ation of my dream, I even contemplated the possible existence of 
some mighty secret by which youth, if not perpetuated, might be at 
least prolonged, and that dreadful vicinity of death, within whose 
circle love pines and pleasure sickens, might be for a while averted. 
'MVlio knows," I would ask, ^^but that in Egypt, that region of 
wonders where Mystery hath yet unfolded but lialf her treasures, 
where still remain, undeciphered, upon the pillars of Seth so many 



Thomas Moore, 533 

written secrets of the iintediluvian world — who can tell but that 
some powerful charm, some amulet, may there lie hid whose dis- 
covery, as this j)hantom hath jn'omised, hut awaits my coming — 
some compound of the same pure atoms that form the essence of 
the living stars, and whose infusion into the frame of man might 
render him also unfading and immortal ! " 

Thus fondly did I sometimes sjDeculate in those vague moods of 
mind when the life of excitement in which I was engaged, acting 
npon a warm heart and vivid fancy, produced an intoxication of 
spirit, during which I was not wholly myself. This bewilderment, 
too, was not a little increased by the constant struggle I experi- 
enced between my own natural feelings and the cold, mortal creed 
of my sect, in endeavoring to escape from whose deadening bondage 
I but broke loose into the realms of fantasy and romance. 

Even in my soberest moments, however, that strange vision for 
ever haunted me, and every effort I made to chase it from my recollec- 
tion was unavailing. The deliberate conclusion, therefore, to which 
1 at last came was that to visit Egypt was now my only resource ; 
that without seeing that land of wonders I could not rest, nor, 
Tintil convinced of my folly by disappointment, be reasonable. 
Without delay, accordingly, I announced to my friends of the garden 
the intention I had formed to pay a visit to the Land of Pyramids. 
To none of them, however, did I dare to confess the vague, visionary 
impulse that actuated me, knowledge being the object that I 
alleged, while pleasure was that for which they gave me credit. 
The interests of the school, it was feared, might suffer by my ab- 
sence, and there were some tenderer ties which had still more to 
fear from separation. But for the former inconvenience a tempora- 
ry remedy was provided, while the latter a skilful distribution of 
vows and sighs alleviated. Being furnished with recommendatory 
letters to all parts of Egypt, I set sail, in the summer of the year 
257 A.D., for Alexandria. 

CHAPTER III. 

To one who so well knew how to extract pleasure from every mo- 
ment on land, a sea-voyage, however smooth and favorable, appeared 
the least agreeable mode of losing time that could be devised. 
Often, indeed, did my imagination, in passing some isle of those 
seas, people it with fair forms and loving hearts, to which most 



534 



The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 



willingly would I have paused to offer homage. But the wind blew 
direct towards the Land of Mystery, and, still more, I heard a voice 
within me whispering for ever, ^^ On." 

As we approached the coast of Egypt our course became less 
prosj)erous, and we had a specimen of the benevolence of the divi- 
nities of the Kile in the shape of a storm, or rather whirlwind, 
which had nearly sunk our vessel, and which the Egyptians on 
board declared to be the work of their deity, Typhon. After a day 
and night of danger, during which we were driven out of our course 
to the eastward, some benigner influence prevailed above, and, at 
length, as the morning freshly broke, we saw the beautiful city of 
Alexandria rising from the sea, with its proud Palace of Kings, its 
portico of four hundred columns, and the fair Pillar of Pillars 
towering in the midst to heaven. 

After passing in review this splendid vision, we shot rapidly round 
the Rock of Pharos, and, in a few minutes, found ourselves in the 
harbor of Eunostus. The sun had risen, but the light on the 
Great Tower of the Eock was still burning, and there was a languor 
in the first waking movements of that voluj)tuous city, whose houses 
and temples lay shining in silence around the harbor, that suffi- 
ciently attested the festivities of the preceding night. 

We were soon landed on the quay ; and, as I walked through a 
line of palaces and shrines up the street which leads from the sea 
to the Grate of Canoj^us, fresh as I was from the contemplation of 
my own lovely Athens, I yet felt a glow of admiration at the scene 
around me, which its novelty, even more than its magnificence, in- 
sj)ired. ISTor were the luxuries and delights which such a city j)ro- 
mised among the least of the considerations ujDon which my fancy 
dwelt. On the contrary, everything around me seemed prophetic 
of love and pleasure. The very forms of the architecture, to my 
Epicurean imagination, appeared to call up images of living grace ; 
and even the dim seclusion of the temples and groves spoke only of 
tender mysteries to my mind. As the whole bright scene grew ani- 
mated around me, I felt that though Egypt might not enable me to 
lengthen life, she could teach me the next best art — that of multi- 
plying its enjoyments. 

Eapidly some weeks now passed in ever-changing pleasures. Even 
the melancholy voice deep within my heart died away; but, at 
length, as the novelty of these gay scenes wore off, the same vague 
and gloomy bodings began to mingle with all my joys ; and an inci- 



Thomas Moore. 535 

dent that occuiTed at this time, during one of my gayest revels, con- 
duced still more to deepen their gloom. 

The celebration of the annual festival of Serapis happened to take 
place during my stay, and I was more than once induced to mingle 
with the gay multitudes that flocked to the shrine at Canopus on. 
the occasion. Day and night, as long as this festival lasted, the 
great canal which led from Alexandria to Canopus was covered with 
boats full of pilgrims of both sexes, all hastening to avail themselves 
of this pious license, which lent the zest of a religious sanction to 
pleasure, and gave a holyday to the follies and passions of earth in 
lienor of heaven. 

I w^as returning one lovely night to Alexandria. The north wind 
— that welcome visitor — had cooled and freshened the air, while the 
banks on either side of the stream sent forth, from gi'oves of orange 
and henna, the most delicious odors. As I had left all the crowd 
behind me at Canopus, there was not a boat to be seen on the canal 
but my own, and I was just yielding to the thoughts which solitude 
at such an hour inspires, when my reveries were suddenly broken by 
the sound of some female voices, coming mingled with laughter and 
screams, from the garden of a pavillion that stood brilliantly illumi- 
nated upon the bank of the canal. 

On rowing nearer I perceived that both the mirth and the alarm 
had been caused by the efforts of some j^layful girls to reach a hedge 
of jasmine which grew near the water, and in bending towards 
which they had nearly fallen into the stream. Hastening to proffer 
my assistance, I soon recognized the face of one of my fair Alexan- 
drian friends, and, springing on the bank, was surrounded by the 
whole group, who insisted on my joining their j)arty in the pavil- 
lion ; and, having flung around me as fetters the tendrils of jasmine 
which they had just plucked, conducted me no unwilling captive to 
the banquet-room. 

I found here an assemblage of the vary flower of Alexandrian so- 
ciety. The unexpectedness of the meeting added new zest to it on 
both sides, and seldom had I ever felt more enlivened myself or 
succeeded better in infusing life and gayety into others. 

Among the company were some Greek women, who, according to 
the fashion of their country, wore veils, but, as usual, rather to 
set off than to conceal their beauty, some bright gleams of which 
were constantly escaping from under the cloud. There w^as, how- 
ever, one female who particularly attracted my attention, on whose 



536 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

head was a cliaplet of dark-colored flowers, and wlio sat yelled and 
silent during the whole of the banquet. She took no share, I ob- 
served, in what was passing around; the viands and the wine went 
by her untouched, nor did a word that was spoken seem addressed 
to her ear. This abstraction from a scene so sparklino-with gayety, 
though aj^parently unnoticed by any one but myself, struck me as 
mysterious and strange. I enquired of my fair neighbor the cause 
of it, but she looked grave, and was silent. 

In the meantime the Ip'e and the cup went round, and a young 
maid from Athens, as if inspired by the presence of her country- 
man, took her lute and suns; to it some of the sonofs of Greece with 
the warmth of feeling that bore me back to the banks of the Ilissus, 
and, even in the bosom of present ]3leasures, drew a sigh from my 
heart for that which had passed away. It was daybreak ere our 
delighted party rose, and most unwillingly re-embarked to return to 
the city. 

We were scarce afloat when it was discovered that the lute of the 
young Athenian had been left behind, and, with a heart still full of 
its sweet sounds, I most readily sprang on shore to seek it. I has- 
tened at once to the banquet-room, which was now dim and soli- 
tary, except that — there, to my utter astonishment, was still seated 
that silent figure which had awakened so much my curiosity during 
the evening. A vague feeling of awe came over me as I now slowly 
api)roached it. There was no motion, no sound of breathing in 
that form ; not a leaf of the dark chaplet upon its brow stirred. 
By the light of a dying lamp which stood on the table before the 
figure I raised, with hesitating hand, the veil, and saw — what my 
fancy had already anticipated — that the shape underneath was life- 
less, was a skeleton ! Startled and shocked, I hurried back with 
the lute to the boat, and was almost as silent as that shape itself 
during the remainder of the voyage. 

This custom among the Egyptians of placing a mummy or skele- 
ton at the banquet-table had been for some time disused, except at 
particular ceremonies, and even on such occasions it had been the 
practice of the luxurious Alexandrians to disguise this memorial of 
mortality in the manner just described. But to me, who was wholly 
unprepared for such a si^ectacle, it gave a shock from which my 
imagination did not speedily recover. This silent and ghastly wit- 
ness of mirth seemed to embody, as it were, the shadow in my own 
heart. The features of tlie grave were thus stamped upon the idea 



TJio7Jias JIoo7'e. 537 

that had long haunted me, and this i^icttire of what I was fo he now 
associated itself constantly with the snnniest aspect of what I icas. 

The memory of the di*eam now recmred to me more livelily 
than ever. The bright, assuring smile of that beautiful Spirit, and 
his words, '^ Go to the shores of the dark Xile and thou wilt find 
the eternal life thou seekest," were for ever present to mv mind. 
But as yet, alas ! I had done nothing towards realizing the proud 
promise. Alexandria was not Egypt : the yery soil on which it now 
stood was not iu existence when already Thebes and Memphis had 
numbered age: of glory. 

**' Xo,"' I exclaimed : ••'it is only beneath the Pyramids of Mem- 
phis or in the mystic halls of the Labyrinth those holy arcana are 
to be found of which the antediluyian worid has made Egyj^t its 
heir, and among which — Ablest thought ! — ^the key to eternal life mav 
lie."' 

Haying formed my determination, I took leave of my many Alex- 
andrian friends and departed for Memphis. 

CT TA PTEB, IV. 

Egypt was, perhaps, of all others, the country most calculated, 
from that mixture of the melancholy and the Toluptuous which 
marked the character of her people, her religion, and her scenery, 
to affect deeply a fancy and tenij)erament like mine and keep both 
for ever tremblingly alive. Wherever I turned I beheld the desert 
and the garden mingling together their desolation and bloom. I 
saw the love-bower and the tomb standing side by side, as if, in that 
land, pleasure and death kept hourly watch upon each other. In 
the verv luxury of the climate there was the same saddeninsr influ- 
ence. The monotonous splendor of the days, the solemn radiance of 
the nights, all tended to cherish that ardent melancholy, the offspring 
of passion and of thought, which had been so long the familiar 
inmate of my soul. 

When I sailed from Alexandria the intmdation of the Xile was at 
its fall. The whole valley of Egypt lay covered by its blood ; and, 
as looking around me, I saw in the light of the setting sun shrines, 
palaces, and monuments enciried by the waters, I could almost 
fancy that I beheld the sinking island of Atalantis on the last even- 
ing its temples were visible above the wave. Such varieties, too, of 
animation as presented themselves on eveiy side ! 



538 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

While, far as sight could reach, beneath as clear 
And blue a heayen as ever bless'd this sphere, 
Gardens and pillar'd streets and porphyry domes, 
And high-built temples, fit to be the homes 
Of mighty gods — and pyramids, whose hour 
Outlasts all time, above the waters tower. 

Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that make 

One theatre of this vast peopled lake, 

Where all that love, religion, commerce gives 

Of life and motion ever moves and lives. 

Here, up the steps of temples, from the wave, 

Ascending, in procession slow and grave, 

Priests in white garments go with sacred wands 

And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands ; 

While there rich barks, fresh from those sunny tracts 

Far off, beyond the sounding cataracts, 

Glide with their precious lading to the sea, 

Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros' ivory. 

Gems from the Isle of Meroe, and those grains 

Of gold wash'd down by Abyssinian rains. 

Here, where the waters wind into a bay 

Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims on their way 

To Sais or Bubastus, among beds 

Of lotus-fl.owers, that close above their heads. 

Push their light barks, and hid, as in a bower, 

Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour ; 

While haply, not far off beneath a bank 

Of blossoming acacias, many a prank 

Is play'd in the cool current by a train 

Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she whose chain 

Around two conquerors of the world was cast, 

But for a third too feeble, broke at last. 

Enchanted with the whole scene, I lingered delightedly on my 
Yoyage, visiting all those luxurious and venerable places Avhose 
names have been consecrated by the wonder of ages. At Sais I was 
present during her Festival of Lamps, and read by the blaze of 
innumerable lights those sublime words on the temple of Neitha : 
" I am all that has been, that is, and that will be, and no man hath 
ever lifted my veil." I wandered among the prostrate obelisks of 
Heliopolis, and saw, not without a sigh, the sun smiling over her 
ruins as if in mockery of the mass of perishable grandeur that had 
once called itself in its pride '^The City of the Sun." But to the 



Thomas Moore, 539 

Isle of the Golden Venus was, I own, mj fondest pilgrimage ; and 
there, as I rambled through its shades, where bowers are the only 
temples, I felt how far more worthy to form the shrine of a deity 
are the everlasting stems of the garden and the grove than the most 
precious columns the inanimate quarry can supply. 

Everywhere new pleasures, new interests awaited me, and though 
Melancholy stood as usual for ever near, her shadow fell but half- 
way over my vagrant path, leaving the rest but more welcomely 
brilliant from the contrast. To relate niy various adventures dur- 
ing this short voyage would only detain me from events far, far 
more worthy of record. Amidst all this endless variety of attrac- 
tions the great object of my journey had been forgotten ; the mys- 
teries of this land of the sun still remained to me as much myste- 
ries as ever, and as yet I had been initiated in nothing but its 
pleasures. 

It was not till that memorable evening when I first stood before 
the Pyramids of Memphis and beheld them towering aloft like the 
watch-tov/ers of Time, from whose summit, when about to expire, 
he will look his last — it was not till this moment that the great 
secret announced in my dream again rose, in all its inscrutable 
darkness, upon my thoughts. There was a solemnity in the sun- 
shine resting upon those monuments ; a stillness, as of reverence, in 
the air that breathed around them, which seemed to steal like the 
music of past times into my heart. I thought what myriads of the 
wise, the beautiful, and the brave had sunk into dust since earth 
first saw those wonders, and, in the sadness of my soul, I exclaimed : 
'^Must man alone, then, perish ? must minds and hearts be annihi- 
lated while pyramids endure ? Death, Death I even upon these 
everlasting tablets — the only apjDroach to immortality that kings 
themselves could purchase — thou hast written our doom awfully 
and intelligibly, saying, ''There is for man no eternal mansion but 
the grave. ' ' ' 

My heart sunk at the thought, and for the moment I yielded to 
that desolate feeling which overspreads the soul that hath no light 
from the future. But again the buoyancy of my nature prevailed, 
and, again the willing dupe of vain dreams, I deluded myself into 
the belief of all that my heart most wished with that happy fa- 
cility which enables imagination to stand in the place of haj^pi- 
ness. ''^Yes,'"' I cried, ^'^ immortality m2i<§^ be within man's reach, 
and as wisdom alone is worthy of such a blessing, to the wise 



540 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland. 

alone must the secret have been revealed. It is said that deep 
under yonder pp-amid has lain for ages concealed the table of 
emerald, on which the thrice-great Hermes, in times before the 
flood, engraved the secret of alchemy, which gives gold at will. 
Why, then, maynot the mightier, the more godlike secret that gives 
life at will be recorded there also ? It was by the power of gold, 
of endless gold, that the kings who now repose in those massy 
structures scooped earth to its very centre, and raised quarries 
into the air, to provide for themselves tombs that might outstand 
the world. "Who can tell but that the gift of immortahty was 
also theirs ? who knows but that they themselves, triumphant over 
decay, still live, those mighty mansions which we call tombs being 
rich and everlasting palaces within whose dej)ths, concealed from 
this withering world, they still wander with the few elect who have 
been sharers of their gift through a sunless but ever-illuminated 
elysium of their own ? Else, wherefore those structures ? where- 
fore that subteiTanean realm by which the whole valley of Egypt 
is undermined ? TVliy, else, those labyi'inths, which none of earth 
have ever beheld, which none of heaven, except that God who 
stands with finger on his hushed lip, hath ever trodden ? " 

While thus I indulged in fond dreams, the sun, already half 
sunk beneath the horizon, was taking, calmly and gloriously, his 
last look of the Pp'amids, as he had done evening after evening 
for ages, till they had grown familiar to him as the earth itself. 
On the side turned to his ray they now presented a front of daz- 
zling whiteness, while on the other their great shadows, lengthening 
away to the eastward, looked like the first steps of night hasten- 
ing to envelop the hills of Araby in her shade. 

Xo sooner had the last gleam of the sun disappeared than on 
every housetop in Memphis gay, gilded banners were seen waving 
aloft to proclaim his setting, while at the same moment a full burst 
of harmony was heard to peal from all the temples along the 
shores. 

Startled from my musing by these sounds, I at once recollected 
that on that very evening the great Festival of the Moon was to 
be celebrated. On a little island, half-way over between the gar- 
dens of Memphis and the eastern shore, stood the temple of that 
goddess — 



Thomas Moore. 541 

Whose beams 
Bring the sweet time of night-flowers and dreams. 
2s ot the cold Dian of the Xorth, who chains 
In vestal ice the current of yonng retos : 

But she who haunts the gay Babastian grove, 
And owns she sees from her bright heaven al>Dve 
Nothing on earth to match that heaven but love. 

Thus did I exclaim, in the words of one of theii' own EgT]3tian 
poets, as. anticipating the various delights of the festival, I cast 
away from my mind all gloomy thoughts, and hastening to my 
little batkj in which I now lived the life of a Xile-bird on the waters, 
steered my coui'se to the island Temj^le of the Moon. 

CHAPTEB V. 

The rising of the moon, slow and majestic, as if conscious of 
the honors that awaited her upon earth, was welcomed with a 
loud acclaim, from everv eminence, where multitudes stood watchinsr 
for her first light. And seldom had that light risen upon a more 
beautiful scene. The city of Memphis, still grand, though no lon- 
ger the tmrivalled Memphis that had borne away from Thebes the 
crown of supremacy, and worn it undisputed through ages, now, 
softened by the moonlight that harmonized with her decline, 
shone forth among her lakes, her pyi-amids, and her shiines like 
one of those di*eams of human glory that must ere long pass away. 
Even already ruin was yisible around her. The sands of the Libyan 
desert were gaining upon her like a sea, and there, among solitary 
columns and sphinxes, ah'eady half sunk from sight. Time seemed 
to stand waiting till all that now flourished around him should fall 
beneath his desolating hand hke the rest. 

On the waters all was gayety and life. As far as eye could 
reach the horhts of innumerable boats were seen studdins: like 
rubies the surface of the stream. Vessels of eveiy kind, from the 
light coracle, built for shooting down the cataracts, to the large 
yacht that glides slowly to the soimd of flutes — all were afloat for 
this sacred festival, filled with crowds of the vounsr and the srav. not 
only from Memphis and Babylon, but from cities stiil farther re- 
moved from the festal scene. 

As I approached the island I could see glittering through the 
trees on the bank the lamps of the pilgrims hastening to the cere- 



542 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

mony. Landing in tlie direction wliicli those lights pointed out. I 
soon joined the crowd, and, passing through a long alley of sphinxes, 
whose sjoangiing marble gleamed out from the dark sycamores 
around them, reached in a short time the grand yestibule of the 
tem^^le, where I found the ceremonies of the evening already com- 
menced. 

In this vast hall, which was surrounded by a double range of 
columns, and lay open overhead to the stars of heaven, I saw a 
group of young maidens moving in a sort of measured step, between 
walk and dance, round a small shrine, upon which stood one of 
those sacred birds that, on account of the variegated color of their 
wings, are dedicated to the worship of the moon. The vestibule was 
dimly lighted, there being but one lamp of naphtha hung on each 
of the great pillars that encircled it. But, having taken my station 
beside one of those pillars, I had a clear view of the young dancers 
as in succession they passed me. 

The drapery of all was white as snow, and each wore loosely be- 
neath the bosom a dark-blue zone or bandelet, studded like the skies 
at midnight with small silver stars. Through their dark locks was 
wreathed the white lily of the Mle, that sacred flower being ac- 
counted no less welcome to the moon than the golden blossoms of 
the bean-flower are known to be to the sun. As they passed under 
the lamp a gleam of light flashed from their bosoms, which, I could 
perceive, was the reflection of a small mirror that, in the manner 
of the women of the East, each of the dancers wore beneath her 
left shoulder. 

There was no music to regulate their steps ; but as they grace- 
fully went round the bird on the shrine, some to the beat of the Cas- 
tanet, some to the shrill ring of a sistrum, which they held uplifted 
in the attitude of their own divine Isis, continued harmoniously to 
time the cadence of their feet, while others at every step shook a 
small chain of silver, whose sound, mingling with those of the casta- 
nets and sistrums, produced a wild but not unj)leasing harmony. 

They seemed all lovely, but there was one, whose face the light 
had aot yet reached, so downcast she held it, who attracted and at 
length riveted all my looks and thoughts. I knew not why, but 
there was something in those half -seen features, a charm in the 
very shadow that hung over their imagined beauty, whicli took my 
fancy more than all the outshining loveliness of her companions. 
So enchained was I by this coy mystery that her alone of all the 



Thomas Moore, 543 

grotip could I either see or tliink of, her alone I watched as with 
the same downcast brow she glided gently and aerially round the 
altar, as if her presence, like that of a spirit, Avas something to be 
felt, not seen. 

Suddenly, while I gazed, the loud crash of a thousand cymbals 
was heard, the massy gates of the temple flew open as if by magic, 
and a flood of radiance from the illuminated aisle filled the whole 
vestibule, while at the same instant, as if the light and the sounds 
were born together, a peal of rich harmony came mingling with the 
radiance. 

It was then, by that light, which shone full upon the yotmg 
maiden's features, as, starting at the sudden blaze, she raised her 
eyes to the portal and as quickly let fall their lids again — it was 
then I beheld what even my own ardent imagmation, Jn its most 
vivid dreams of beauty, had never pictured. Xot Psyche herself, 
when pausing on the threshold of heaven, while its first glories fell 
on her dazzled hds, could have looked more ptirely beautiful or 
blushed with a. more innocent shame. Often as I had felt the 
power of looks, none had ever entered into my soul so deeply. It 
was a new feeling, a new sense, coming as suddenly upon me as that 
radiance into the vestibule, and. at once fillins: mv whole beino- 
and had that bright vision but lingered another moment before my 
eyes, I should in my transport have wholly forgotten who I was and 
where, and thrown myseK in prostrate adoration at her feet. 

Btit scarcely had that gush of harmony been heard when the 
sacred bird, which had till now been standing motionless as an 
image, spread wide his wings and flew into. the temple, while his 
gi'aceful young worshippers, with a fleetness like his own, followed, 
and she, who had left a dream in my heart never to be forgotten, 
vanished along with the rest. As she went rapidly past the pillar 
against which I leaned, the ivy that encircled it caught in her 
drapery and disengaged some ornament, which fell to the ground. 
It was the small mirror which I had seen shinins: on her bosom. 
Hastily and tremulously I picked it up, and hurried to restore it, 
but she was already lost to my eyes in the crowd. 

In vain did I try to follow ; the aisles were already filled, and 
numbers of eager pilgrims j)i'essed towards the portal. But the 
servants of the temple denied all further entrance, and still, as I 
presented myself, their white wands barred the way. Peiplexed 
and irritated amid that crowd of faces, regarding all as enemies 



544 T^^^ Prose and Poetry of Irelaiid, 

that impeded my progress, I stood on tiptoe, gazing into the busy 
aisles, and with a heart beating as I caught from time to tim.e a 
glimpse of some spangled zone or lotus-wreath, which led me to 
fancy that I had discovered the fair object of my search. But it 
was all in vain. In every direction files of sacred nymphs were 
moving', but nowhere could I discover her whom alone I souoiit. 

In this state of breathless agitation did I stand for some time, 
bewildered with the confusion of faces and lights, as well as with 
the clouds of incense that rolled around me, till, fevered and impa- 
tient, I could endure it no longer. Forcing my way out of the 
vestibule into the cool air, I hurried back through the alley of 
sphinxes to the shore, and flung myself into my boat. 

There lies to the north of Memphis a solitary lake (which at this 
season of the year mingles with the rest of the waters), upon whose 
shores stands the JSTecropolis, or City of the Dead — a place of melan- 
choly grandeur, covered over with shrines and pyramids, where many 
a kingly head, proud even in death, has lain awaiting through long 
ages the resurrection of its glories. Through a range of sepulchral 
grots underneath, the humbler denizens of the tomb are deposited, 
looking out on each successive generation that visits them with 
the same face and features they wore centuries ago. Every plant 
and tree consecrated to death, from the asphodel-flower to the 
mystic plantain, lends its sweetness or shadow to this place of 
tombs, and the only noise that disturbs its eternal calm is the low 
humming sound of the priests at prayer when a new inhabitant is 
added to the Silent Citv. 

It was towards this place of death that, in a mood of mind, as 
usual, half gloomy, half bright, I now, almost unconsciously, directed 
my bark. The form of the young priestess was continually before 
me. That one bright look of hers, the very remembrance of which 
was worth all the actual smiles of others, never for a moment left 
my mind. Absorbed in such thoughts, I continued to row on, 
scarce knowing whither I went, till at length, startled to find myself 
within the shadow of the City of the Dead, I looked up, and beheld 
rising in succession before me pyramid beyond pyramid, each 
towering more loftily than the other, while all were out-topped in 
grandeur by one upon whose summit the bright moon rested as on 
a pedestal. 

Drawing nearer to the shore, which was sufiSciently elevated to 
raise this silent city of tombs above the level of the inundation, I 



TJiovias Afoore. 545 

rested my oar, and allowed the boat to rock idly upon the water, 
while, in the meantime, my thoughts, left equally without direc- 
tion, were allowed to fluctuate as idly. How Tague and various 
were the dreams that then floated through my mind, that bright 
Tision of the temple still mingling itself with all I Sometimes she 
stood before me, like an aerial spirit, as jiure as if that element of 
music and light into which I had seen her yanish was her only 
dwelling. Sometimes, animated with j^assion and kindling into a 
creature of earth, she seemed to lean towards me with looks of ten- 
derness which it were worth worlds but for one instant to inspire ; 
and asrain, as the dark fancies that ever haunted me recurred, I saw 
her cold, ]3arched, and blackening amid the gloom of tliose eternal 
sejnilchres before me I 

Turning away with a shudder from the cemetery at this thought, 
I heard the sound of an oar plying swiftly through the water, and 
in a few moments saw shooting past me towards the shore a small 
boat in which sat two female figures, muffled up and veiled. Hav- 
ing landed them not far from the sjDOt where, under the shadow of 
a tomb on the bank, I lay concealed, the boat again departed with 
the same fleetness over the flood. 

Xever had the prospect of a lively adventui'e come more welcome 
to me tlian at this moment, when my busy fancy was employed in 
weaving such chains for my heart as threatened a bondage of all 
others the most difficult to break. To become enamoured thus of 
a creatui'e of mv own imasrination was the worst, because the most 
lastinsf, of follies. It is onlv realitv that can afford anv chance of 
dissolving such, spells, and the idol I was now creating to myself 
must for ever remain ideal. Any j^ursuit, therefore, that seemed 
likely to divert me from such thoughts — to bring back my imagina- 
tion to earth and realitv from the vasfue resrion in which it had 
been wandering — was a relief far too seasonable not to be welcomed 
with eagerness. 

I had watched the course which the two figures took, and, having 
hastily fastened my boat to the bank, stepped gently on shore, and, 
at a little distance, followed them. The windings through which 
they led were intricate ; but by the bright light of the moon I was 
enabled to keejD their forms in view, as with rapid step they glided 
among the monuments. At length, in the shade of a small pyra- 
mid whose peak barely surmounted the plane-trees that gi*ew nigh, 
they vanished fi'om my sight. I hastened to the spot, but there 



54^ ^/^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

was not ti sign of life aronnd, and, had my creed extended to 
another world, I might have fancied these forms were spirits sent 
down from thence to mock me, so instantaneously had they disap- 
peared. I searched through the neighboring groye, but all there 
was still as death. At length, in examining one of the sides 
of the pyramid, which for a few feet from the ground was fur- 
nished with steps, I found, midway between peak and base, a part 
of its surface which, although presenting to the eye an appearance 
of smoothness, gave to the touch, I thought, indications of a con- 
cealed opening. 

After a vari'ety of efforts and experiments, I at last, more by acci- 
dent than skill, pressed the spring that commanded this hidden 
aperture. In an instant the portal slid aside, and disclosed a nar- 
row stairway within, the two or three first steps of which were dis- 
cernible by the moonhght, while the rest were all lost in utter 
darkness. Though it was difficult to conceive that the persons 
whom I had been pursuing would have ventured to pr.ss through 
this gloomy opening, yet to account for their disappearance other- 
wise was still more difficult. At all events my curiosity was now 
too eager in the chase to relinquish it ; the spirit of adventure 
once raised could not be so easily laid. Accordingly, having sent 
up a gay prayer to that bliss-loving queen whose eye alone was upon 
me, I passed through the portal and descended into the pyramid. 



CHAPTER. VI. 



At the bottom of the stairway I found myself in a low, narrow 
passage, through which, without stooping almost to the earth, it 
was impossible to proceed. Though leading through a multipHcity 
of dark windings, this way seemed but little to advance my progress, 
its course, I perceived, being chiefly circular, and gathering, at 
every turn, but a deeper intensity of darkness. 

^^Can anything," thought I, '^of human kind sojourn here?" 
and had scarcely asked myself the question when the path opened 
into a long gallery, at the farthest end of which a gleam of light 
was visible. This welcome glimmer appeared to issue from some cell 
or alcove, in which the right-hand wall of the gallery terminated, 
and, breathless with expectation, I stole gently towards it. 

Arrived at the end of the gallery, a scene presented itself to my 
«yes for which my fondest cxpeotations of adventure could not 



Thomas Jloare. 547 

have prepared me. The place from which the hght proceeded was 
a small chapeL of whose interior, from the dark recess in which I 
stood^ I could take, unseen myself, a full and distinct view. OTcr 
the walls of this oratory were painted some of those various sym^- 
bols by which the mystic wisdom of the Egyptians lores to shadow 
out the History of the Soul — the winged globe with a serpent, the 
rays descended from above, like a glory, and the Theban beetle, as 
he comes forth after the waters have passed away, and the first sun- 
beam falls on his regenerated wings. 

In the middle of the chapel, on a low altar of granite, lay a life- 
less female form, enshrined within a caiSe of crystal (as it is the 
custom to preserve the dead in Ethiopia) and looking as freshly 
beautiful as if the soul had but a few hours departed- Among the 
emblems of death, on the front of the altar, were a slender lotus- 
branch broke in two, and a small bird just winging its flight from 
the spray. 

To these memorials of the \^t L h ""?^ :r. I paid but httle at- 
tention, for there was a Ii~i-- ,~-~ ^ . }kJii which my eyes 
were now intently fixed. 

The lamp by which the whole of the chapel was illuminated 
was placed at the head of the pale image in the shrine, and berween 
its light and me stood a female form, bending over the monument, 
as if to gaze ujwn the silent features within. The position in. 
which this figure was placed, intercepting a strong light, afforded 
me at first but an imperfect and shadowy view of iL Yet even 
aX, this mere outline I felt my heart beat high- and memory had no 
less share, as it proved, in this feeling than imagination. For on 
the head changing its position, so as to let a gleam fall upon the 
features, I saw, with a transport which had almost led me to Ijctraj 
my lurking-place, that it was she — ^the voimg worshipper of Isis — ^the 
same, the very same whom I had seen, brightening the holy place 
where she stood, and looking like an inhabitant of some purer world. 

The movement by which she had now afforded me an opportunity 
of rwiognizing her was made in raising from the shrine a small 
cross of silver which lay directly over the bosom of the lifeless 
figure. Bringing it close to her lips, she kissed it with a religious 
fervor ; then, turning her eyes mournfully upwards, held them 
fixed with a degree of inspired earnestness, as if at that moment, 
in direct communion with heaven, they saw neither roof nor any 
other earthlv barrier between fhem and the skies. 



54S The Prose aiid Poetry of Ireland. 

What a power is there in innocence I whose Terr helplessness is its 
safeguard, in whose presence even Passion himself stands abashed, 
and turns worshipper at the very altar which he came to despoiL 
She who, but a short hour before, had presented herself to my im- 
asrination as somethinsr I could have risked immortalitv to win ; 
she whom gladly fi'om the floor of her own lighted temple, in the 
very face of its proud ministers, I would have borne away in tri- 
umph, and dared all punishments, divine and huinan, to make her 
mine, that veiy creature was now before me, as if thrown by fate 
itself into my power, standing there, beautiful and alone, with 
nothing but her innocence for her guard. Yet no, so touching was 
the purity of the whole scene, so calm and august that protection 
which the dead extended over the livincr. that everv earthlv feelins: 
was forgotten as I gazed, and love itself became exalted into reve- 
rence. 

But entranced as I felt in witnessing such a scene, thns to enjoy 
it by stealth seemed to me a wrong, a saciHege ; and, rather than 
let her eyes enc^)unter the flash of mine, or disturb by a whisper 
that sacred silence in which youth and death held communion 
through undying love, I would have suffered my heart to break, 
without a murmur, where I stood. Gently, as if life itself de- 
pended on my every movement, I stole away from that tranquil and 
holy scene, leaving it still holy and tranquil as I had found it, and, 
gliding back through the same passages and windings by which I 
had entered, reached again the narrow stairway, and reascended 
into light. 

The sun had just risen, and from the summit of the Arabian 
hills was pouring down his beams into that vast valley of waters, as 
if proud of last night's homage to his own divine Tsis, now fading^ 
away in the superior splendor of her Lord. My first impulse was 
to fly at once from this dangerous spot, and in new loves and plea- 
sures seek forgetftdness of the wondrous scene I had just witnessed. 
'•' Once," I exclaimed, •' out of the circle of this enchantment, I 
know too well my own susceptibility to new impressions to feel any 
doubt that I shall soon break the spell that is now around me." 

But vain were all mv efforts and resolves. Even while swearinsr to 
fly that spot, I found my steps still lingering fondly round the pyra- 
mid, my eyes still turned towards the portal which severed this 
enchantress from the world of the living. Hour after hour did I 
wander through that City of Silen(?e, till already it was midday. 



Thomas Moore, 549 

and, under the snn's meridian eye. the mighty pyramid uf pyi'a- 
mids stood, like a great spirit, shadowless. 

Again did those wild and passionate feelings, which for the mo- 
ment her presence had subdued into reverence, retui-n to take pos- 
session of my imagination and my senses. I even rejn-oached my- 
self for the awe that had held me spellbound before her. •'• What," 
thought I, ■' wotild my companions of the garden say, did they 
know that their chief, he whose path love had strewed with tro- 
phies, was now pining for a simple Egyptian girl, in whose presence 
he had not dared to utter a single sigh, and who had vanqtushed 
the victor without even knowing her triumph ? '' 

A blush came over my cheek at the humihating thought, and I 
determined at all risks to await her coming. That she should be 
an inmate of those crloomv caverns seemed inconceivable : nor did 
there aj^pear to be any egress out of their depths but by the pyra- 
mid. Again, therefore, hke a sentinel of the dead, did I pace uji 
and down among those tombs, contrasting mounif ally the burning 
fever in my own veins with the cold quiet of those who lay sltmi- 
berina: around. 

At leno:th the intense orlow of the sun over mv head, and. still 
more, that ever restless agitation in my heart, became too much 
for even strength like mine to endure. Exhausted, I threw my- 
self down at the base of the pyramid, choosing my place directly 
under the portal, where, even should slumber surprise me, my heart, 
if not my ear, might still keep watch, and her footstep, hght as it 
was, could not fail to awake me. 

After many an ineffectual struggle against drowsiness, I at length 
sunk into sleep, but not into forgetfulness. The same image still 
haunted me, in every variety of shape with which imagination, 
assisted by memory, could invest it. Xow, hke the goddess Xeitha, 
upon her throne at Sais, she seemed to sit, with the veil just raised 
from that brow which till then no mortal had ever beheld, and 
now, like the beautiful enchantress Ehodope, I saw her rise from 
out the ppamid in which she had dwelt for ages — 

• • Fair Rhodope, as story tell?, 
The bright unearthly nymph, who dwehs 
Mid sunless gold and jewels hid. 
The Lady of the Pyramid ! " 

So long had my sleep continued that, when I awoke, I found the 



550 The Pilose and Poetry of Ireland, 

moon again resplendent above the horizon. But all around was 
looking tranquil and lifeless as before, nor did a print on the grass 
betray that any foot had i^assed there since my own. Refreshed, 
however, by my long rest, and with a fancy still more excited by 
the mystic wonders of which I had been dreaming, I now resolved 
to revisit the chapel in the pyramid, and put an end, ii possible, to 
this strange mystery that haunted me. 

Having learned, from the experience of the preceding night, 
Mie inconvenience of encountering those labyrinths without a light, 
I now hastened to provide myself with a lamp from my boat. 
Tracking my way back with some difficulty to the shore, I there 
found not only my lamp, but also some dates and dried fruits, of 
which I was always provided with store for my roving life upon the 
waters, and which, after so many hours of abstinence, were now a 
most welcome and necessary relief. 

Thus prepared, I again ascended the pyramid, and was proceed- 
ijig to search out the secret spring, when a loud, dismal noise was 
heard at a distance, to which all the melancholy echoes of the 
cemetery gave answer. The sound came, I knew, from the great 
temple on the shore of the lake, and was the sort of shriek which, 
its gates — the Gates of Oblivion, as they are called — used always to 
send forth from their hinges when opening at night to receive the ' 
newly-landed dead. 

I had more than once before heard that sound, and always with 
sadness ; but at this moment it thrilled through me like a voice of 
ill omen, and I almost doubted whether I should not abandon my en- 
terprise. The hesitation, however, was but momentary ; even while 
it passed through my mind I had touched the spring of the portal. 
In a few seconds more I was again in the passage beneath the pyra- 
mid, and, being enabled by the light of my lamj) to follow the wind- 
ings more rapidly, soon found myself at the door of the small chapel 
in the gallery. 

I entered, still awed, though there was now, alas ! nought living- 
within. The young priestess had vanished like a spirit into the 
darkness, and all the rest remained as I had left it on the preceding- 
night. The lamp still stood burning upon the crystal shrine ; the 
cross was lying where the hands of the young mourner had placed 
it, and the cold image within the shrine wore still the same tran- 
quil look, as if resigned to the solitude of death — of all lone things 
the loneliest. Remembering the lips that I had seen kiss that cross. 



TkoTnas Moore. 551 

and kindling with the recollection, I raised it passionately to my 
own ; but the dead eyes, I tliouglit, met mine, and, awed and sad- 
dened in the midst of my ardor, I replaced the cross upon the 
shrine. 

I had now lost every clue to the object of my pursuit, and, with 
all that sullen satisfaction which certainty, eyen when unwelcome, 
brings, was about to retrace my ste]3S slowly to earth, when, as I 
held forth my lamp on leaving the chapel, I perceived that the gal- 
lery, instead of terminating here, took a sudden and snake-like 
bend to the left, which had before eluded my observation, and which 
seemed to give promise of a pathway still farther into those recesses. 
Reanimated by this discovery, which opened a new source of lupe 
to my heart, I cast, for a moment, a hesitating look at my lamp, as 
if to enquire whether it would be faithful through the gloom I was 
about to encounter, and then, without further consideration, rushed 
eagerly forward. 

CHAPTER TII. 

The path led, for a while, through the same sort of narrow 
windings as those which I had before encountered in descending the 
stairway, and at length opened, in a similar manner, into a straight 
and steep gallery, along each side of which stood, closely ranged 
and upright, a file of lifeless bodies, whose glassy eyes appeared to 
glare upon me preternaturally as I passed. 

Arrived at the end of this gallery, 1 foand my hopes for the 
second time vanish, as the path, it was manifest, extended no fur- 
ther. The only object I was able to discern by the glimmering of 
my lamp, which now burned every minute fainter and fainter, was 
the mouth of a huge well that lay gaping before me — a reservoir of 
darkness, black and unfathomable. It now crossed my memory 
that I had once heard of such wells as being used occasionally for 
passages by the priests. Leaning down, therefore, ov^n' the edge, I 
examined anxiously all within, in order to see if it affoi '.ed the 
means of effecting a descent into the chasm ; but the sides. I could 
perceive, were hard and smooth as glass, being varnished all over 
with that sort of dark pitch which the Dead Sea throws cut upon 
its slimy shore. 

After a more attentive scrutiny, however, I observed, at the depth 
of a few feet, a sort of iron step ^^rojecting dimly from the side, and 



552 The P^'ose and Poetry of Ireland, 

below it another. Tvhicli, tlioiigii hardly percej^tible, was just suffi- 
cient to encourage an adventurous foot to the trial. Though all 
hope of tracing the young priestess was now at an end — it being im- 
possible that female foot should liaye ventured on this descent — 
yet, as I had engaged so far in the adventure, and there was, at 
least, a mystery to be unravelled, I determined at all hazards to ex- 
23lore the chasm. Placing my lamp, therefore (which was hollowed 
at the bottom, so as to be worn like a helmet), firmly upon my head, 
and havino- thus both hands at libertv for exertion, 1 set mv foot 
cautiously on the iron step, and descended into the well. 

I found the same footiug- at reo^tilar intervals to a considerable 
dej^th, and had already counted near a hundred of these steps when 
the ladder altogether ceased, and I could descend no further. In 
vain did I stretch down my foot in search of support — the hard, 
slippery sides were all that it encountered. At length, stooping my 
head so as to let the light fall below, I observed an opening or win- 
dow directly above the step on which I stood, and, taking for 
granted that the way must lie in that direction, contrived to clam- 
ber, with no small difficulty, throtigh the a]oerture. 

I now found myself on a rtide aud narrow stairway, the steps of 
which were cut out of the living rock, and wound spirally downward 
in the same direction as the well. Almost dizzy with the descent, 
which seemed as if it would never end, I at last reached the bottom, 
where a pair of massy iron gates were closed directly across my path, 
as if wholly to forbid any further progress. Massy and gigantic, how- 
ever, as they were, I found, to my surprise, that the hand of an 
infant might have opened them with ease, so readily did their stu- 
pendous folds give way to my touch, 

" Light as a lime-bush, that receives 
Some wandering bird among its leaves." 

No sooner, however, had I passed through than the astounding 
din with which the gates clashed together again was such as might 
have awakened death itself. It seemed as if every echo throughout 
that vast stibterranean world, from the Catacombs of Alexandria to 
Thebes's Valley of Kings, had caught up and repeated the thunder- 
ing sound. 

Startled as I was by the crash, not even this supernatural clangor 
could divert my attention from the sudden Hght that now broke 
around me — soft, warm, and welcome, as are the stars of his own 



Thomas Moore. 553 

South to the eyes of the mariner who has long beeu wandering 
through the cokl seas of the Xorth. Looking for the source of this 
splendor, I saw through an archway opposite a long illuminated 
alley stretching away as far as the eye could reach, and fenced on 
one side with thickest of odoriferous shrubs, while along the other 
extended a line of lofty arcades from which the light that filled the 
whole area issued. As soon, too, as the din of the deep echoes had 
subsided there stole gradually on my ear a strain of choral music, 
which appeared to come mellowed and sweetened in its passage 
througli many a spacious hall within those shining arcades, while 
among the Toices I could distinguish some female tones, which, 
toweriug high and clear above all the rest, formed the spire, as it 
were, into which the harmony tapered as it rose. 

So excited was my fancy by this sudden enchantment that, though 
never had I caught a sound from the fair Egyjotian's lips, I yet per- 
suaded myself that the voice I now heard was hers, sounding high- 
est and most heavenly of all that choir, and calling to me, like a 
distant spirit, from its sphere. Animated by this thought, I flew 
forward to the archway, but found, to my mortification, that it was 
guarded by a trelliswork, whose bars, though invisible at a distance, 
resisted all my efforts to force them. 

While occupied in these ineffectual struggles, I perceived, to the 
left of the archway, a dark cavernous opening which seemed to lead 
in a direction parallel to the lighted arcades. Xotwithstanding, 
however, my imj)atience, the aspect of this passage, as I looked 
shadderingly into it, chilled my very blood. It was not so much 
darkness as a sort of livid and ghastly twilight, from which a damp, 
like that of death-vaults, exhaled, and through which, if my eyes 
did not deceive me, j)ale, phantom-like shapes were at that very 
moment hovering. 

Looking anxiously round to discover some less formidable outlet, 
I saw, over the vast folding gates through which I had just passed, 
a blue, tremulous flame, which, after playing for a few seconds over 
the dark ground of the pediment, settled gradually into characters 
of light, and formed the following words : 



You who would try 
Yon terrible track, 

To live or to die, 

But ne'er to look back — 



554 ^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

You who aspire 

To be purified there 
By the terrors of Fire, 

Of Water, and Air— 

If danger and pain 

And death you despise, 
On ; for again 

Into light you shall rise ; 

Rise into light 

With that Secret Divine, 
Now shrowded from sight 

By the Veils of the Shrine ! 

But if— 

Here the letters faded away into a dead blank, more awfully intel- 
ligible than the most eloquent words. 

A new hope now flashed across me. The dream of the garden, 
which had been for some time almost forgotten, returned freshly to 
my mind. ^' Am I, then/" I exclaimed, ^^in the path to the pro- 
mised mystery ? and shall the great secret of Eternal Life indeed 
be mine ? " 

''Yes !" seemed to answer out of the air that spirit-voice which 
still was heard at a distance crowning the choir with its single 
sweetness. I hailed the omen with trans|)ort. Love and immor- 
tality both beckoning me onward — who would give even a thought 
to fear with two such bright hopes in j)rospect ! Having invoked 
and blessed that unknown enchantress whose steps had led me to 
this abode of mystery and knowledge, I instantly plunged into the 
chasm. 

Instead of that vague, spectral twilight which had at first met 
my eye, I now found, as I entered, a thick darkness, which, though 
far less horrible, was, at this moment, still more disconcerting, as 
my lamp, which had been for some time almost useless, was now 
fast expiring. Resolved, however, to make the most of its last 
gleam, I hastened, with rapid step, through this gloomy region, 
which appeared to be wider and more open to the air than any I 
had yet joassed. ISTor was it long before the sudden appearance of 
a bright blaze in the distance announced to me that my first great 
trial was at hand. As I drew nearer, the flames before me burst 
high and wide on all sides, and the awful spectacle that then pre- 



Thomas Moore, 555 

sented itself was such as might have daunted hearts far more ae- 
customed to dangers than mine. 

There lav before me, extending completely across my path, 
a thicket or grove of the most combustible trees of Esrypt — tama- 
rind, piue, and Arabian balm, while arotind their stems and branches 
were coiled serpents of fire, which, twisting themselves rapidly 
from bough to bough, spread the contagion of their own wild-fire 
as thev went, and involved tree after tree in one general blaze. It 
was, indeed, rapid as the burning of those reed-beds of Ethiopia 
whose light is often seen brightening at night the distant cataracts 
of the Xile. 

Through the middle of this blazing grove I could now perceive 
mv only pathway lay. There was not a moment, therefore, to be lost, 
for the conflagration gained rapidly on either side, and already the 
narrowing path between was strewed with vivid fire. Casting away 
my uow useless lamp, and holding my robe as some slight protec- 
tion over my head, I ventured, with trembling limbs, into the blaze. 

Instantly, as if my presence had. given new life to the flames, a 
fresh outbreak of combustion arose on all sides. The trees clus- 
tered into a bower of fire alx)ve my head, while the serpents that 
htmg hissing from the red branches shot showers of sparkles down 
upon me as I passed. Xever were decision and activity of more 
avail : one minute later and I must have perished. The narrow 
opening of which I had so promptly availed myself closed instantly 
behind me, and, as I looked back to contemplate the ordeal which I 
had passed, I saw that the whole grove was ah-eady one mass of fire. 

Eejoiced to have escaped this first trial, I instantly plucked from 
one of the pine-trees a bough that was but just kindled, and, with 
this for my only gnide, hastened breathlessly forward. I had ad- 
vanced but a few j»aces when the path turned suddenly off, leading 
downwards, as I could j^erceive by the glimmer of my brand, into a 
more confined region, through which a chiUing air, as if from some 
neighboring waters, blew over my brow. Xor had I proceeded far 
in this cotirse when the sound of torrents, mixed, as I thought, from 
time to time with shrill wailings resembling the cries of jiersons in 
danger or distress, fell mournfully upon my ear. At every step the 
noise of the dashing waters increased, and I now perceived that I 
had entered an immense rocky cavern, through the middle of which, 
headlong as a winter torrent, the dark flood to whose roar I had 
been listening poured its waters, while upon its surface floated 



256 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

o-rim spectre-like shapes, wliicli, as tliey went by, sent forth those 
dismal shrieks 1 had heard, as if in fear of some awful precipice 
towards whose brink they were hurrying. 

I saw plainly that across that torrent must be my course. It was, 
indeed, fearful ; but in courage and ]3erseverance now lay my only 
hope. What awaited me on the opposite shore I knew not ; for all 
there was immersed in impenetrable gloom, nor could the feeble 
light which I carried send its glimmer half so far. Dismissing, 
however, all thoughts but that of pressing onward, I sprung from 
the rock on which I stood into the flood, trusting that with my 
right hand I should be able to buffet the current, while with the 
other, as long as a gleam of the brand remained, I might hold it 
aloft to guide me safely to the shore. 

Long, formidable, and almost hojDcless was the struggle I had 
now to maintain, and more than once, overpowered by the rush of 
the waters, I had given myself up as destined to follow those pale, 
death-like apparitions that still went past me, hurrying onward 
with mournful cries to find their doom in some invisible gulf be- 
yond. 

At length, just as my strength was nearly exhausted and the last 
remains of the pine-branch were drop|)ing from my hand, I saw, 
outstretching towards me into the water, a light double balustrade, 
with a flight of steps between, ascending almost perpendicularly 
from the wave till they seemed lost in a dense mass of clouds above. 
This glimpse — for it was nothing more, as my light expired in giv- 
ing it — lent new spring to my courage. Having now both hands at 
liberty, so desperate were my efforts that, after a few minutes' 
struggle, I felt my brow strike against the stairway, and in an 
instant my feet were on the steps. 

Rejoiced at my escape from that perilous flood, though I knew 
not whither the stairway led, I promptly ascended the steps. 
But this feeling of confidence was of short duration. I had not 
mounted far, when, to my horror, I j)erceived that each successive 
step as my foot left it broke away from beneath me, leaving me in 
mid-air with no other alternative than that of still mounting by the 
same momentary footing, and with the appalling doabt whether it 
would even endure my tread. 

And thus did I for a few seconds continue to ascend, with nothing 
beneath me but that awful river, in which, so tranquil had it now 
become, T could hear the plash of the falling fragments as every 



Thomas Moore. 557 

gtep in succession gave way from under my feet. It was a most 
fearful moment^ but even still worse remained. I now found the 
balustrade by which. I had held during my ascent, and which had 
Litherto appeared to be firm, growing tremulous in my hand, while 
L*ie step to which I was about to trust myseK tottered under my 
foot. Just then a momentary flash, as if of lightning, broke around 
me. and I saw hanorinor out of the clouds, so as to be barely within 
my reach, a huge brazen ring- Instinctively I stretched forth my arm 
: :• seize i!!:, aud, at the same instant, both balustrade and steps gave 
~ay beneath me, and I was left swinging by my hand^ in the dark 
~:»id- As if, too, this massy ring which I grasped was by some 
-nag ir power linked with all the winds in heaven, no sooner had I 
seized it than, like the touching of a spring, it seemed to give loose 

: every rariety of gusts and tempests that ever strewed the sea- 
jliore with wrecks or dead, and as I swung about, the sport of this 
elemental strife, every new burst of its fury threatened to shiver me 
like a storm-sail to atoms. 

Xor was even this the worst ; for, still holding, I know not how, 
by the ring, I felt myself caught up as if by a thousand whirlwinds, 
and then round and round, like a stone-shot in a sling, continued 
to be whirled in the midst of all this deafening chaos tiH my brain 
grew dizzy, my recollection became confused, and I almost fancied 
myself on that wheel of the infernal world whose rotations eternity 
alone can number. 

Human strength could no longer sustain such a triaL I was on 
the point, at last, of loosing my hold, when suddenly the violence 
of the storm moderated, my whirl through the air gradually ceased, 
and I felt the ring slowly descend with me till — happy as a ship- 
^PTiecked mariner at the first touch of land — ^I found my feet once 
more upon firm ground. 

At the same moment alight of the most delicious soft:: ^- iilled 
the whole air. Music such as is heard in dreams came £ :_^ at 
a distance, and, as my eyes gradually recovered their powers of 
fision, a scene of glory was revealed to them almost too bright for 
imagination, and yet living and reaL As far as the sight could reach 
enchanting gardens were seen, opening away through long tracts of 
light and verdure, and sparkling evetywhere with fountains that cir- 
culated like streams of life among the flowers. Xot a charm was 
here wanting that the fancy of poet or prophet, in their warmest 
pictures of Elysium, have ever yet dreamed or promised. Yistas, 



558 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

opening into scenes of indistinct grandenr ; streams, shining out at 
intervals in their shadowy course ; and labyrintlis of flowers, leading 
by mysterious windings to green, spacious glades full of splen- 
dor and repose. Over all this, too, there fell a light from some un- 
seen source resembling nothing that illumines our upper world, a 
sort of golden moonlight: mingling the warm radiance of day with 
the calm and melancholy lustre of night. 

^or were there wanting inhabitants for this sunless Paradise. 
Through all the bright gardens were seen wandering, with the se- 
rene air and step of happy spirits, groups both of young and old, of 
venerable and of lovely forms, bearing, most of them, the Mle's 
white flowers on their heads and branches of the eternal palm in 
their hands, while over the verdant turf fair children and maidens 
went dancing to aerial music, whose source was, like that of the 
light, invisible, but which filled the whole air with its mystic sweet- 
ness. 

Exhausted as I was by the painful trials I had undergone, no 
sooner did I perceive those fair groups in the distance than my 
weariness, both of frame and spirit, Avas forgotten. A thought 
crossed me that she whom I sought might haply be among them, 
and notwithstanding the feeling of awe with which that unearthly 
scene inspired me, I was about to fly on the instant to ascertain my 
hope. But while in the act of making the effort, I felt my robe 
gently pulled, and turning round, beheld an aged man before me 
whom, by the sacred hue of his garb, I knew at once to be a Iliero- 
phant. Placing a branch of the consecrated palm in my hand, he 
said, in a solemn voice, ^^x\spirant of the Mysteries, welcome !" 
then, regarding me for a few seconds with grave attention, added, 
in a tone of courteousness and interest, ^'' The victory over the body 
hath been gained. Follow me, young Greek, to thy resting-place." 

I obeyed the command in silence, and the priest, turning away 
from this scene of splendor into a secluded pathway where the light 
gradually faded as we advanced, led me to a small pavilion by the 
side of a whispering stream, where the very spirit of slumber seemed 
to preside, and, pointing silently to a bed of dried poppy-leaves, left 
m.e to repose. 

CHAPTER VITI. 

On awaking, the imprudence of the step on which I had ventured 
appeared in its full extent before my eyes. I had here thrown my- 



Thomas Aloore, 559 

self into the power of the most artful priesthood in the world with- 
out even a chance of being able to escape from their toils, or to resist 
any machinations with which they might beset me. It appeared 
evident, from the state of preparation in which I had found all that 
wonderful apparatus by which the terrors and splendors of initia- 
tion are produced, that my descent into the pyramid was not unex- 
pected. Numerous indeed and active as were the sj)ies of the Sacred 
College of Memphis, it could little be doubted that all my move- 
ments since my arrival had been w^atchfully tracked, and the many 
hours I had employed in wandering and exploring around the 
pyramid betrayed a curiosity and spirit of adventure which might 
well suggest to these wily priests the hope of inveigling an Epicu- 
rean into their toils. 

I was well aware of their hatred to the sect of which I was chief 
— that they considered the Epicureans as, next to the Christians, 
the most formidable enemies of their craft and power. '* How 
thoughtless, then," I exclaimed, '^to have placed myself in a situa- 
tion where I am equally helpless against fraud and violence, and 
must either pretend to be the dupe of their impostures or else sub- 
mit to become the victim of their vengeance ! " Of these alterna- 
tives, bitter as they both were, the latter appeared by far the more 
welcome. It was with a blush that I even looked back u^ion the 
mockeries I had already yielded to, and the prospect of being 
put through still further ceremonials, and of being tutored and 
preached to by hypocrites whom I so much despised, appeared to 
me, in my present mood of mind, a trial of patience compared to 
which the flames and whirlwinds I had already encountered were 
pastime. 

The thought of death, ever ready to present itself to my ima- 
gination, now came with a disheartening weight, such as I had 
never before felt. I almost fancied myself already in the dark 
vestibule of the grave, removed for ever from the world above, 
and with nothing but the blank of an eternal sleep before me. It had 
happened, I knew, frequently that the visitants of this mysterious 
realm were, after their descent from earth, never seen or heard 
of, being condemned, for some failure in their initiatory trials, to 
pine away their lives in those dark dungeons with which, as weU 
as with altars, this region abounded. Such, I shuddered to think, 
might probably be my own destiny, and so appalling was the 
thought that even the courage by which I had been hitherto sus- 



560 The Prose a^id Poetry of Ireland, 

tained died within me, and I was already giving myseK up to help- 
lessness and despair. 

While with an imagination thus excited, and I stood waiting the 
result, an increased gush of light awakened my attention, and I 
saw, with an intenseness of interest which made my heart beat 
aloud, one of the corners of the mighty Veil of the Sanctuary raised 
slowly from the floor. I now felt that the great secret, whatever it 
might be, was at hand. A vague hope even crossed my mind — so 
wholly had imagination now resumed her empire — that the splendid 
j)romise of a dream I once had was on the very point of being 
realized ! 

With surprise, however, and, for the moment, with some disap- 
pointment, I perceived that the massy corner of the veil was but 
lifted sufficiently from the ground to allow a female figure to emerge 
from under it, and then fell over its mystic splendors as utterly 
dark as before. By the strong light, too, that issued when the dra- 
23ery was raised, and illuminated the profile of the emerging figure, 
I either saw, or fancied that I saw, the same bright features that 
had already so often mocked me with their momentary charm, and 
seemed destined, indeed, to haunt my fancy as unavaiHng as even 
the fond, vain dream of immortality itself. 

Dazzled as I had been by that short gush of splendor, and dis- 
trusting even my senses when under the influence of so much excite- 
ment, I had but just begun to question myself as to the reality of 
my impression when I heard the sounds of light footsteps approach- 
ing me through the gloom. In a second or two more the figure 
stoj)ped before me, and, placing the end of a ribbon gently in my 
hand, said, in a tremulous whisper, ^^ Follow, and be silent." 

So sudden and strange was the adventure that for a moment I 
hesitated, fearing that my eyes might possibly have been deceived 
as to the object they had seen. Casting a look towards the veil, 
which seemed bursting with its luminous secret, I was almost 
doubting to which of the two chances I should commit myself, 
when I felt the ribbon in my hand pulled softly at the other ex- 
tremity. This movement, like a touch of magic, at once decided 
me. Without any further deliberation, I yielded to the silent sum- 
mons, and following my guide, who was already at some distance 
before me, found myself led up the same flight of marble steps by 
which the priest had conducted me into the sanctuary. Arrived at 
their summit, I felt the pace of my conductress quicken, and, giv- 



Thomas Moore. 561 

ing one more look to the veiled sbrine, whose glories we left burning 
uselessly behind us, hastened onward into the gloom, full of confi- 
dence in the belief that she who now held the other end of that clue 
was one whom I was ready to follow devotedly thi'ough the world. 

CHAPTES IX. 

With such rapidity was I hurried along by mv unseen guide, full 
of wonder at the speed with which she ventured thi'ough these laby- 
rinths, that I had but little time left for reflection upon the strange- 
ness of the adventure to which I had committed myself. ^ly know- 
ledge of the character of the Memphian priests, as well as some 
fearful ramors that had reached me concerning the fate that often 
attended unbelievers in their hands, awakened a momentary suspi- 
cion of treacherv in mv mind. But when I recalled the face of mv 
guide as I had seen it in the small chapel, with that divine look, the 
very memory of which brought purity into the heart, I found my 
suspicions all vanish, and felt shame at having harbored them but 
an ins rant. 

In the meanwhile our rapid course continued, 'vrithout any inter- 
ruption, through windings even more caj^riciou sly intricate^* than 
any I had yet passed, and whose thick gloom seemed never to have 
been broken bv a sinsfle ofhmmer of lisrht. Mv unseen conduct- 
ress was still at some distance before me, and the slight clue, to 
which I clung as if it were Destiny's own thread, was still kept by 
:;ie speed of her course at full stretch between us. At length, sud- 
denly stopping, she said, in a breathless whisper, *' Seat thyself 
here,'"' and at the same moment led me by the hand to a sort of low 
cai\ in which, obeying her brief command, I lost not a moment in 
placing myself, while the maiden no less promptly took her seat by 
my side. 

A sudden click, like the touching of a spring, was then heard, and 
the car — which, as I had felt in entering it, leaned half-way over a 
steep descent — on being let loose from its station, shot down almost 
perpendicularly into the darkness with a rajDidity which at first 
nearly deprived me of breath. The wheels shd smoothly and noise- 

2> In addition to the accounts "which the ancients have left us of the prodigious exca- 
vations in all parts of Egypt, the fifteen hundred chambers under the Labyrinth, the 
subterranean stables of the Thebaid, containing a thousand horses, the crypts of Upper 
E^ypt passing under the bed of the Nile, etc., etc., the stories and traditions current 
among the Arabs stiU preserve the memory of those wonderful substructions. 



562 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

lessly ill grooves, and tlie impetus wliicli the car acquired in de- 
scending was sufficient, I perceived, to carry it up an eminence that 
succeeded, from the summit of which it again rushed down another 
decUvity even still more long and precipitous than the former. In 
this manner we proceeded, by alternate falls and rises, till at length 
from the last and steepest elevation the car descended upon a level 
of deep sand, where, after running a few yards, it by degrees lost 
its motion and stopped. 

Here the maiden, alighting again, placed the ribbon in my hands, 
and again I followed her, though with more slowness and difficulty 
than before, as our way now led up a ffight of damp and time-worn 
steps, whose ascent seemed to the wearied and insecure foot intermin- 
able. Perceiving with what languor my guide advanced, I was on 
the point of making an effort to assist her progress when the creak 
of an opening door above, and a faint gleam of light which at the 
same moment shone upon her figure, apprised me that we were at 
last arrived within reach of sunshine. 

Joyfully I followed through this opening, and by the dim light 
could discern that we were now in the sanctuary of a vast ruined 
temple, having entered by a secret passage under the pedestal upon 
which an image of the idol of the place once stood. The firsb 
movement of the young maiden, after closing again the portal under 
the pedestal, was, without even a single look towards me, to cast lier- 
self down upon her knees with her hands clasped and uplifted, as if 
in thankso-iving or prayer. But she was unable, evidently, to sustain 
herself in this position; her strength could hold out no longer. 
Overcome by agitation and fatigue, she sunk senseless upon the 
pavement. 

Bawildered as I was myself by the strange events of the night, I 
stood for some minutes looking upon her in a state of helplessness and 
alarm. But reminded by my own feverish sensations of the reviving 
effects of the air, I raised her gently in my arms, and, crossing the 
corridor that surrounded the sanctuary, found my way to the obiter 
vestibule of the temple. Here, shading her eyes from the sun, I 
placed her reclining upon the steps, where the cool north wind, 
then blowing freshly between the pillars, might play with free 
draught over her brow. 

It was, indeed, as I now saw with certainty, the same beautiful 
and mysterious girl who had been the cause of my descent into that 
subterranean world, and who now, under such strange and unac- 



Thomas Moore. 563 

countable circcunstances, was my gaide back again to the realms of 
day. I looked around to discover where we were, and beheld such 
a sct^ne of grandeur as, could my eyes have been then attracted to 
any o'jject but the pale form rechning at my side, might well have 
induced them to dwell on its splendid beauties. 

I was now standinsr. I found, on the small island in the centre of 
Lake Mceris, and that sanctuary, where we had just emerged from 
darkness, formed part of the ruins of an ancient temple which was 
(as I have since learned), in the grander days of ^Memphis, a place 
of pilgrimage for worshippers from all parts of Egypt. The fair 
lake itself, out of whose waters once rose pavilions, palaces, and 
even lofty pyramids, was still, though divested of many of these 
wonders, a scene of interest and splendor such as the whole world 
could not equal. TVhile the shores still sparkled with mansions and 
temples that bore testimony to the luxury of a living race, the voice 
of the jDasl, speaking out of unnumbered ruins, whose summits 
here and there rose blackly above the wave, told of times long fled 
and generations long swept away, before whose giant remains all 
the glory of the present stood humbled. Over the southern bank 
of the lake hting the dark relics of the Labyrinth ; its twelve royal 
l^alaces, representing the mansions of the Zodiac, its thundering 
portals and consteiiated halls, having left nothing now behind but 
a few frowniny^ ruins, which, contrasted with the soft srroves of 
acacia and oHve arotind them, seemed to rebuke the luxuriant smiles 
of nature and threw a melancholy grandeur over the whole scene. 

The effects of the air in reanimating the young priestess were 
less speedy than I had exi)ected ; her eyes were still closed, and she 
remained pale and insensible. Alarmed, I now rested her head 
(irhich had been for some time supported by my arm) against the 
base of one of the columns, with my cloak for its pillow, while I 
hastened to procure some water from the lake. The temple stood 
high, and the descent to the shore was precijDitous; but my Epicu- 
rean habits having but little impaired my activity, I soon descended 
with the hghtness of a desert deer to the bottom. Here, plucking 
from a lofty bean-tree, whose flowers stood shining like gold above 
the water, one of those large hollowed leaves that serve as cups for 
the Hebes of the Xile, I filled it from the lake and hurried back 
with the cool draught towards the temple. It was not, however, 
without some diffisulty that I at last succeeded in bearing my rustic 
chalice steadily up the steep ; more than once did an unlucky 



564 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

slip waste all its contents, and as often did I return impatiently to 
refill it. 

During this time the young maiden was fast recovering her anima- 
tion and consciousness, and at the moment when I appeared above 
the edge of the steep was just rising from the steps with her hand 
pressed to her forehead, as if confusedly recalling the recollection 
of what had occurred. IS.0 sooner did she observe me than a short 
cry of alarm broke from her lij)s. Looking anxiously a^'ound, as 
though she sought for protection, and half-audibly uttering the 
words, ^^ Where is he?" she made an effort, as I approached, to re- 
treat into the tem^^le. 

Already, however, I was by her side, and taking her hand, as 
she turned away from me, gently in mine, asked : ^ ^ Whom dost 
thou seek, fair priestess ? " thus, for the first time breaking the 
silence she had enjoined, and in a tone that might have reassured the 
most timid spirit. But my words had no effect in calming her aj)- 
prehension. Trembling, and with her eyes still averted towards the 
temple, she continued in a voice of suppressed alarm : ^'^ Where can 
he be ? that venerable Athenian, that philosopher, who — " 

''Here, here!" I exclaimed, anxiously interrupting her ; '^ behold 
him still by thy side — the same, the very same who saw thee steal 
from under the Veils of the Sanctuary, whom thou hast guided by a 
clue through those labyrinths below, and who now only waits his 
command from those lips to devote himself through life and death 
to thy service." As I spoke these words she turned slowly round, 
and, looking timidly in my face while her own burned with blushes, 
said, in a tone of doubt and wonder, ''^Thou ! " and then hid her 
eyes in her hands- 

I knew not how to interpret a recej)tion so unexpected. That 
some mistake or disappointment had occurred was evident ; but so 
inexplicable did the whole adventure appear to me that it was in 
vain to think of unravelling any part of it. Weak and agitated, 
she now tottered to the stej)s of the temple, and there seating her- 
self, with her forehead against the cold marble, seemed for some 
moments absorbed in the most anxious thought, while, silent and 
watchful, I awaited her decision, though, at the same time, with a 
feeling which the result proved to be prophetic — tliat my destiny 
was from thenceforth linked inseparably with hers. 

The inward struggle by which she was agitated, though violent, 
was not of long continuance. Starting suddenly from her seat, with 



Thomas Moore. 565 

^ look of terror towards the temple, as if tlie fear of immediate 
pursuit had alone decided her, she pointed eagerl}' towards the east, 
and exclaimed, '' To the Nile, without delay !'' clasping her hands 
after she had thus spoken with the most suppliant ferror, as if to 
soften the abruptness of the mandate she had given, and appealing 
to me at the same time with a look that would have taught stoics 
themselves tenderness. 

I lost not a moment in obeying the welcome command. With a 
thousand wild hopes naturally crowding upon my fancy at the 
thoughts of a voyage under such auspices, I descended ra2:)idly to 
the shore, and, hailing one of those boats that ply upon the lake for 
hire, arranged speedily for a passage down the canal to the Xile. 
Having learned, too, from the boatmen a more easy path up the 
rock, I hastened back to the temple for my fair charge, and, with- 
out a word or look that could alarm even by its kindness, or disturb 
the innocent confidence which she now evidently reposed in me, led 
her down by the winding j)ath to the boat. 

Everything around looked sunny and smiling as we embarked. 
The morning was in its first freshness, and the path of the breeze 
might clearly be traced over the lake as it went weakening up the 
waters from their sleep of the night. The gay, golden -winged birds 
that haunt these shores were in every direction skimming along 
the lake, while, with a graver consciousness of beauty, the swan 
and the pelican were seen dressing their white jDlumage in the 
mirror of its wave. To add to the liveliness of the scene, there 
came at intervals on the breeze a sweet tinkling of musical instru- 
ments from boats at a distance, employed thus early in pursuing the 
fish of these waters, that allow themselves to be decoyed into the 
nets by music. 

The vessel I had selected for our voyage was one of those small 
pleasure-boats or j^achts so much in use among the luxurious navi- 
gators of the Xile, in the centre of which rises a pavilion of cedar 
or cypress wood, adorned richly on the outside with religious em- 
blems, and gaily fitted up Avithin for feasting and repose. To the 
door of this 2)avilion I now led my companion, and, after a few 
words of kindness, tempered cautiously with as much reserve as the 
deep tenderness of my feeling towards her would admit, left her to 
court that restoring rest which the agitation of her spirits so much 
required. 

For myself, thougli rejoose was hardly less necessary to me, the 



566 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

state of ferment in which I had been so long kept appeared to 
render it hopeless. Having thrown myself on the deck of the 
vessel, under an awning which the sailors had raised for me, I 
continued for some hours in a sort of vague day-dream, sometimes 
passing in review the scenes of that subterranean drama and some- 
times, with my eyes fixed on drowsy vacancy, receiving passively 
the impressions of the bright scenery through which we passed. 

The banks of the canal were then luxuriantly wooded. Under 
the tufts of the light and towering palm were seen the orange and 
the citron interlacing their boughs, while here and there huge tama- 
risks thickened the shade, and, at the very edge of the bank, the 
willow of Babylon stood bending its graceful branches into the 
water. Occasionally out of the depth of these groves there shone 
a small tem23le or j)leasare-house, while now and then an opening 
in their line of foliage allowed the eye to wander over extensive 
fields all covered with beds of those pale, sweet roses for which this 
district of Egypt is so celebrated. 

The activit}^ of the morning hour was visible in every direction. 
Plights of doves and lapwings were fluttering among the leaves, and 
the white heron, which had been roosting all night in some date- 
tree, now stood sunning its wings upon the green bank, or floated, 
like living silver, over the flood. The flowers, too, both of land and 
water, looked all just freshly awakened, and, most of all, the superb 
lotus, which, having risen along with the sun from the wave, was 
now holding up her chalice for a full draught of his light. 

Such were the scenes that now successively presented themselves 
and mingled with the vague reveries that floated through my mind 
as our boat, with its high, capacious sail, swept along the flood. 
Though the occurrences of the last few days could not but appear 
to me one continued series of wonders, yet by far the greatest 
marvel of all was that she whose first look had sent wildfire into 
my heart, whom I had thought of ever since with a restlessness of 
passion that would have dared all danger and wrong to obtain its- 
object — slie was now at this moment resting sacredly within that 
pavilion, while guarding her, even from myself, I lay motionless at 
its threshold. 

Meanwhile, the sun had reached his meridian height. The busy 
hum of tlie morning had died gradually away, and all around was 
sleeping in the hot stillness of noon. The Nile goose, having folded 
up her splendid Avings, was lying motionless on the shadow of the 



Thomas Moore. 567 

sycamores in the water. Even tbe nimble lizards upon the bank 
appeared to move less nimbly as the light fell on their gold and 
azure hues. Oyercome as I was with watching, and weary with 
thought, it was not long before I yielded to the becalming influence 
of the hour. Looking fixedly at the pavilionj as if once more to as- 
sure myself that I was in no dream or trance, but that the young 
Egyptian was really there, I felt my eyes close as I gazed, and in a 
few minutes sunk into a profound sleep. 

CHAPTER XI. 

It was by the canal through which we now sailed that in the 
more prosperous days of Memphis the commerce of Upper Egypt 
and Xubia was transported to her magnificent lake, and from 
thence, having paid tribute to the queen of cities, was poured foith 
again through the ^ile into the ocean. The course of this canal to 
the river was not direct, but ascending in a southeasterly direction 
towards the Sai'd; and in calms, or with adverse winds, the passage 
was tedious. But, as the breeze was now blowing freshly from the 
north, there was every prospect of reaching the river before nightfall. 
Eapidly, too, as our galley swept along the flood, its motion was 
so smooth as to be hardly felt, and the quiet gurgle of the waters and 
the drowsy song of the boatman at the 2^1'ow were the only sounds 
that disturbed the deep silence which prevailed. 

The sun, indeed, had nearly sunk behind the Lybian hills before 
the sleep into which these sounds had contribtited to lull me was 
broken, and the first object on which my eyes rested, in waking 
was that fair young priestess, seated within a porch which shaded 
the door of the j'^avilion, and bending intently over a small volume 
that lay unrolled on her lap. 

Her face was btit half turned towards me, and as she once or twice 
raised her eyes to the warm, sky, whose lighu fell, softened through 
the trellis, over her cheek, I found all those feelings of reverence 
which she had inspired me with in the chapel return. There was 
even a purer and holier charm around her countenance thus seen by 
the natural light of day than in those dim and unhallowed regions 
below. She was now looking, too, direct to the glorious sky, and 
her pure eyes and that heaven, so worthy of each other, met. 

After contemplating her for a few moments with little less than 
adoration, I rose gently from, my resting-place and approached the 



568 The Pj'ose and Poetry 0/ Ireland. 

pavilion. But the mere movemeut bad startled her from her devo- 
tion, and. blushing and confused, she covered the volume with the 
folds of lier robe. 

In the art of winning upon female confidence I had long, of 
course, been schooled, and now that to the lessons of gallantry the 
inspiration of love was added, my ambition to please and to interest 
could hardly fail, it may be supposed, of success. I soon fotind, 
however, how much less fluent is the heart than the fancy, and how 
very different may be the operations of making love and feeling it. 
In the few words of gi'eeting now exchanged between tis it was evident 
that the gay, the enterprising Epicurean was little less embarrassed 
than the secltided priestess, and after one or two ineffectual efforts 
to converse, the eyes of both ttirned bashfully away, and we relapsed 
into silence. 

From this situation, the restilt of timidity on one side and of a 
feeling altogether new on the other, we were at length relieved, 
after an interval of estransfement, bv the boatmen annotincinsr that 
the Xile was in si£-ht. The countenance of the votmsr Esrvptian 
briohtened at this intellisrence, and the smile with which I con- 
gratulated her upon the speed of our voyage was responded to by 
another from her so full of gTatitude that already an instinctive 
sympathy seemed established between tis. 

We were now on the point of entering that sacred river of whose 
sweet waters the exile di'inks in his dreams, for a drau2:ht of whose 
flood the royal daughters of the Ptolemies, when far away on foreign 
thrones, have been known to sigh in the midst of their splendor. 
As our boat, ^^th slackened sail, was gliding into the cui'rent, an 
enquiry from the boatmen whether they should anchor for the night 
in the Xile first reminded me of the ignorance in which I still re- 
mained with respect to the motive or destination of our voyage. 
Embarrassed by their cpiestion, I directed my eyes towards the 
priestess, whom I saw waiting for my answer with a look of anxiety, 
which this silent reference to her wishes at once dispelled. Un- 
foldino^ easrerlv the volume with which I had seen her so much 
occupied, she took from between its folds a small leaf of i3ap}Tus, on 
which there appeared to be some faint lines of drawing, and, after 
looking upon it thoughtfully for a few moments, placed it with an 
agitated hand in mine. 

In the meantime the boatmen had taken in their sail, and the 
yacht drove slowly down the river with the current, while by alight 



TJiomas Moore. 569 

which had been kindled at sunset on the deck I stood examining the 
leaf that the priestess had given me, her dark eyes fixed anxiously 
on mv countenance all the while. The lines traced upon the papy- 
rus were so faint as to be almost inyisible, and I was for some time 
whoUv unable to form a conjecture as to their im^^ort. At length, 
however, I succeeded in making out that they were a sort of maj) or 
outlines, traced slightly and unsteadily with a Memphian reed, of a 
part of that mountainous ridge by which Upper Egypt is bounded 
to the east, together with the names, or rather emblems, of the 
chief towns in its immediate neighborhood. 

It was thither, I now saw clearly, that the young priestess wished 
to pursue her course. Without further delay, therefore, I ordered 
the boatmen to set our yacht before the wind, and ascend the cur- 
rent. My command was promptly obeyed ; the white sail again 
rose into the region of the breeze, and the satisfaction that beamed 
in everv feature of the fair Egyptian showed that the quickness with 
which I had attended to her wishes was not unfelt by her. The 
moon had now risen, and, though the ctirrent was against us, the 
Etesian wind of the season blew strongly up the river, and we were 
soon floatiug before it through the rich plains and groves of the Said. 

The love with which this simple girl had inspired me was partly, 
perhaps, from the mystic scenes and situations in which I had seen 
her, not tmmingled with a tinge of superstitious awe, under the in- 
fluence of which I felt the natural buoyancy of my spirit repressed. 
The few words that had passed between us on the subject of our 
route had somewhat loosened this spell, and what I wanted of 
vivacity and confidence was more than compensated by the tone of 
deep sensibility which love had awakened in their place. 

We had not proceeded far Ijef ore the glittering of lights at a dis- 
tance and the shooting up of fireworks at intervals into the air ap- 
prized XLS that we were then approaching one of those night-fairs or 
marts which it is the custom at this season to hold upon the Xile. 
To me the scene was familiar, but to my young companion it was 
evidentlv a new world, and the mixture of alarm and delisrht with 
which she gazed from under her veil upon the busy scene into which 
we now sailed gave an air of innocence to her beauty which still 
more heightened its every charm. 

It was one of the widest parts of the river, and the whole surface 
from one bank to the other was covered with boats. Along the 
banks of a green island in the middle of the stream lay anchored 



570 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

the galleys of the principal traders — large floating bazaars, bearing 
each the name of its owner emblazoned, in letters of flame upon the 
stern. Over their decks were spread out in gay confusion the pro- 
ducts of the loom and needle of Egypt — rich carpets of Memphis 
and likewise those variegated veils for which the female embroider- 
ers of the Nile are so celebrated, and to which the name of Cleo- 
patra lends a traditional charm. In each of the other galleys was 
exhibited some branch of Egyptian workmanship — vases of the fra- 
grant porcelain of On, cups of that frail crystal whose hues change 
like those of the pigeon's plumage, enamelled amulets graven with 
the head of Anubis, and necklaces and. bracelets of the black beans 
of Abyssinia. 

While commerce was thus displaying her various luxuries in one 
quarter, in every other the spirit of pleasure, in all its countless 
shapes, swarmed over the waters. I^or was the festivity confined to 
the river alone, as along the banks of the island and on the shores 
illuminated mansions were seen glittering through the trees, from 
whence sounds of music and merriment came. In some of the 
boats were bands of minstrels, who, from time to time, answered 
each other, like echoes, across the wave, and the notes of the lyre, 
the flageolet, and the sweet lotus- wood flute were heard, in the joauses 
of revelry, dying along the waters. 

Meanwhile, from other boats stationed in the least lighted places, 
the workers of fire sent forth their wonders into the air. Bursting 
out suddenly from time to time, as if in the very exuberance of joy, 
these sallies of flame appeared to reach the sky, and there, breaking 
into a shower of sparkles, shed such a splendor around as bright- 
ened even the white x\rabian hills, making them shine as doth 
the brow of Mount Atlas at night when the fire from his own bosom 
is playing around its snows. 

The opportunity this mart afforded us of providing ourselves 
with some less remarkable habiliments than those in wiiich we had 
escaped from that nether world was too seasonable not to be gladly 
taken advantage of by both. For myself, this strange mystic garb 
which I wore was sufficiently concealed by my Grecian mantle, 
which I had fortunately thrown round me on the night of my watch. 
But the thin veil of my companion was a far less eflScient disguise. 
She had, indeed, flung away the golden beetles from her hair, but 
the sacred robe of her order was still too visible, and the stars of the 
bandelet shone brightly through her veil. 



Thomas Moore. 571 

Most gladly, therefore, did she avail herself of this opportunity 
of a change, and as she took from out a casket — which, with the 
volume I had seen her reading, appeared to be her only treasure — a 
small jewel to give in exchange for the simple garments she had 
chosen, there fell out at the same time the very cross of silver which 
I had seen her kiss, as may be remembered, in the monumental 
chapel, and which was afterwards pressed to my own lips. This 
link between us (for such it now appeared to my imagination) called 
up again in my heart all the burning feelings of that moment, and 
liad I not abrujotly turned away, my agitation would have but too 
plainly betrayed itself. 

The object for which we had delayed in this gay scene having 
been accomplished, the sail was again spread, and we proceeded on 
our course up the river. The sounds and the lights we had left be- 
hind died gradually away, and we now floated along in moonlight 
and silence once more. Sweet dews, worthy of being called ^* the 
tears of Isis," fell refreshingly through the air, and every jolant and 
flower sent its fragrance to meet them. The wind, just strong 
enough to bear us smoothly against the current, scarce stirred the 
shadow of the tamarisks on the water. As the inhabitants from all 
quarters were collected at the night-fair, the Nile was more than 
usually still and solitary. Such a silence, indeed, prevailed that, as 
we glided near the shore, we could hear the rustling of the acacias 
as the chameleons ran up their stems. It was altogether such a 
night as only the climate of Egypt can boast, when the whole scene 
around lies lulled in that sort of bright tranquillity winch may be 
imagined to light the slumbers of those happy spirits who are said 
to rest in the Valley of the Moon on their way to heaven. 

By such a light, and at such an hour, seated side by side on the 
deck of that bark, did we pursue our course up the lonely Nile, 
each a mystery to the other, our thoughts, our objects, our very 
names a secret ; separated, too, till now by destinies so different ; 
the one a gay voluptuary of the garden of Athens, the other a 
secluded priestess of the temples of Memphis, and the only rela- 
tion yet established between us being that dangerous one of love, 
passionate love, on one side, and the most feminine and confiding 
dependence on the other. 

The passing adventure of the night-fair had not only dispelled a 
little our mutual reserve, but had luckily furnished us with a sub- 
ject on which we could converse without embarrassment. From 



572 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

tliis topic I took care to lead lier, without any interruption, to 
others, being fearful lest our former silence should return, and the 
music of her voice again be lost to me. It was only, indeed, by thus 
indirectly unburdening my heart that I was enabled to avoid the 
disclosure of all I thought and felt, and the restless rapidity with 
which I flew from subject to subject was but an effort to escape 
from the only one in which my heart was really interested. 

''How bright and happy,*' said I — pointing up to Sothis, the fair 
Star of the Waters, which was just then shining brilliantly over our 
heads — ^' how bright and happy this world ought to be, if, as your 
Egyptian sages assert, yon pure and beautiful luminary was its birth- 
star I '' Then, still leaning back, and letting my eyes wander over the 
firmament, as if seeking to disengage them from the fascination which 
they dreaded. ^*^To the study," I exclaimed, *^for ages of skies 
like this may the joensive and mystic character of your nation be 
traced — that mixture of j)ride and melancholy which naturally 
arises at the sight of those eternal lights shining out of darkness ; 
that sublime but saddened antici23ation of a future which steals 
sometimes over the soul in the silence of such an hour, when, though 
death appears to reign in the deej^ stillness of earth, there are yet 
those beacons of immortality burning in the sky." 

Pausing as I uttered the word ^^ immortality," with a sigh to 
think how little my heart echoed to my lips, I looked in the face of 
my companion, and saw that it had lighted up, as I spoke, into a 
glow of holy animation, such as Faith alone gives, such as Hope 
herself wears when she is dreaming of heaven. Touched by the 
contrast, and gazing upon her with mournful tenderness, I found 
my arm.s half opened to clasp her to my heart, while the words 
died away inaudibly upon my lips, ^' Thou, too, beautiful maiden ! 
must thou, too, die for ever ?" 

My self-command, I felt, had nearly deserted me. Rising abrupt-' 
ly from my seat, I walked to the middle of the deck, and stood for 
some moments unconsciously gazing upon one of those fires which — 
according to the custom of all who travel by night on the Nile — our 
boatmen had kindled to scare away the crocodiles from the vessel. 
But it was in vain that I endeavored to compose my spirit. Every 
effort I made but more deeply convinced me that till the mystery 
which hung round that maiden should be solved, till the secret 
with whicli my own bosom labored should be disclosed, it was 
fruitless to attempt even a semblance of tranquillity. 



Thomas Moore. 573 

My resolution was therefore taken : to lay open at once the feel- 
ings of my own heart, as far as such revealmenfc might be hazarded, 
without startling the timid innocence of my companion. Thus re- 
solved, I resumed by seat, with more composure, by her side, and 
takiag from my bosom the small mirror which she had dropped in 
the temple, and which I had ever since worn suspended round my 
neck, presented it with a trembling hand to her view. The boat- 
men had just kindled one of their night-fires near us, and its light, 
as she leaned forward to look at the mirror, fell upon her face. 

The quick blush of surprise with which she recognized it to be 
hers, and her look of bashful yet eager enquiry in raising her eyes 
to mine, were appeals to which I was not, of course, tardy in an- 
swering. Beginning with the first moment when I saw her in the 
temple, and passing hastily, but with words that burned as they 
went, over the impression which she had then left upon my heart 
and fancy, I proceeded to describe the particulars of my descent into 
the pyramid, my surprise and adoration at the door of the chapel, 
my encounter with the trials of initiation, so mysteriously pre- 
pared for me, and all the various visionary wonders I had witnessed 
in that region, till the moment when I had seen her stealing from 
under the veils to approach me. 

Though, in detailing these events, I had said but little of the 
feelings they had awakened in me, though my lips had sent back 
many a sentence unuttered, there was still enough that could 
neither be subdued nor disguised, and which, like that light from 
under the veils of her own Isis, glowed through every word that I 
spoke. When I told of the scene in the chapel, of the silent inter- 
view which I had witnessed between the dead and the living, the 
maiden leaned down her head and wept, as from a heart full of 
tears. It seemed a pleasure to her, however, to listen, and when 
she looked at me again there was an earnest and affectionate cor- 
diality in her eyes, as if the knowledge of my having been present 
at that mournful scene had opened a new source of sympathy and 
intelligence between us, so neighboring are the fountains of love 
and of sorrow, and so imperceptibly do they often mingle their 
streams. 

Little, indeed, as I was guided by art or design in manner and 
conduct towards this innocent girl, not all the most experienced 
gallantry of the garden could have dictated a policy half so seduc- 
tive as that which my new master. Love, now taught me. The same 



574 ^/^^' Prose and Poet7y of Ireland. 

ardor which, if shown at once and without reseiTe, might probably 
have startled a heart so httle j^repared for it, being now checked 
and softened by the timidity of real love, won its way without 
altU'm, and, when most diffident of success, was then most surely on 
its way to ti'iumph. Like one whose slumbers are gi'adually broken 
by sweet music, the maiden's heart was awakened withotit being 
disturbed. She followed the course of the chai-m, unconscious 
whither it led, nor was even aware of the flame she had lighted in 
another's bosom till startled by the reflection of it glimmering in 
her own. 

Impatient as I was to appeal to her generosity and sympathy for 
a similar proof of confidence to that which I had just given, the 
night was now too far advanced for me to impose u^^on her such a 
task. After exchanging a few words, in which, thotigh little met 
the ear, there was on both sides a tone and manner that spoke far 
more than language, we took a lingering leave of each other for the 
night, with every prospect, I fondly hoped, of being still together 
in our di'eams. 

CHAPTER xn. 

It was so near the dawn of day when we parted that we found 
the sun sinking westward when we rejoined each other. The smile, 
so frankly cordial, with which she met me might have been taken 
for the greeting of a long-mellowed friendship, did not the blush 
and the cast-down eyehd that followed betray symptoms of a feeling 
newer and less calm. For mvself. lisrhtened as I was in some de- 
gree by the avowal which I had made, I was yet too conscious of 
the new aspect thus given to our intercourse not to feel some little 
alarm at the prospect of returning to the theme. We were both, 
therefore, alike willing to allow our attention to be diverted by the 
variety of strange objects that presented themselves on the way 
from a subject that evidently both were alike unwilling to ap- 
l^roach. 

The river was new all stii'ring with commerce and life. Eveiy 
instant we met with boats descendinsf the current, so whollv inde- 
pendent of aid from sail or oar that the mariners sat idly on the 
deck as they shot along, either singing or playing upon tlieir 
double-reeded pi2)es. The greater number of these boats came laden 
witli those large emeralds from the mine in the desert whose colors, 
it is said, are brightest at the full of the moon ; while some brought 



Thomas Moore. 575 

cargoes of frankincense from the acacia groves near tlie Eed Sea. 
On the decks of others that had been, as we learned, to the Goldeu 
Mountains beyond Syene, were heaped blocks and fragments of that 
sweet-smelling wood which is yearly Avashed down by the G-reen Xile 
of Xubia at the season of the flood. 

Oar companions uj) the stream were far less numerous. Occa- 
sionally a boat, returning lightened from the fair of last night, 
shot rapidly j)ast us^, with those high sails that catch every breeze 
from over the hills, while now and then we overtook one of those 
barges full of bees that are sent at this season to colonize the gardens 
of the south, and take advantage of the first floAvers after the inun- 
dation has 2:)assed away. 

For a short time this constant variety of objects enabled us to 
divert so far our conversation as to keep it from lighting upon the 
one sole subject round which it constantly hovered. But the effort, 
as might be expected, was not long successful. As evening ad- 
vanced, the whole scene became more solitary. We less frequently 
ventured to look upon each other, and our intervals of silence grew 
more long. 

It was near sunset when, in passing a small temple on the shore, 
whose porticoes were now full of the evening light, we saw issuing 
from a thicket of acanthus near it a train of young maidens grace- 
fully linked together in the dance by the stems of the lotus held at 
arms' length between them. Their tresses were also wreathed with 
this gay emblem of the season, and in such profusion were its white 
flowers twisted around their waists and arms that they might have 
been taken, as they lightly bounded along the bank, for nymphs of 
the Xile, then freshlv risen from their brio-ht o^ardens under the 
wave. 

After looking for a few minutes at this sacred dance, the maiden 
turned away her eyes with a look of pain, as if the remembrances it 
recalled were of no welcome nature. This momentary retrosjiect, 
this glimjDse into the past, appeared to offer a sort of clue to the 
secret for which I panted, and accordingly I joroceeded, as gradually 
and delicately as my impatience would allow, to avail myself of the 
opening. Her own frankness, however, relieved me from the em- 
barrassment of much questioning. She appeared even to feel that 
the confidence I sought was due to me, and, beyond the natural 
hesitation of maidenly modesty, not a shade of reserve or evasion 
appeared. 



57^ The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

To attempt to repeat, in her own touching woids, tlie simple 
story which slie now related to me would be like endeavoring to 
note down some unpremeditated strain of music, with all those fugi- 
tive graces, those felicities of the moment, which no art can restore 
as they first met the ear. From a feeling, too, of humility, she had 
omitted in her short narrative several particulars relating to herself, 
w^iich I afterwards learned, while others not less important she 
but lightly passed over, from a fear of offending the prejudices of 
her heathen hearer. 

I shall, therefore, give her story, not as she herself sketched it, 
but as it was afterwards filled up by a pious and venerable hand — 
far, far more worthy than mine of being associated with the memory 
of such purity. 

STOKY OP ALETHE. 

'^ The mother of this maiden was the beautiful Theora of Alex- 
andria, who, though a native of that city, was descended from 
Grecian parents. When very young, Theora was one of the seven 
maidens selected to note down the discourses of the eloquent Origen, 
who at that period presided over the school of Alexandria, and 
was in all the fullness of his fame both among pagans and Chris- 
tians. Endowed richly with the learning of both creeds, he brought 
the natural light of philosophy to illustrate the mysteries of faith, 
and was then only proud of his knowledge of the wisdom of this 
world when he found it minister usefully to the triumph of divine 
truth. 

^^ Although he had courted in vain the crown of martyrdom, it 
was held, through his wdiole life, suspended over his head, and in 
more than one persecution he had shown himself cheerfully ready to 
die for that holy faith which he lived but to testify and uphold. 
On one of these occasions his tormentors, having habited him like 
an Egyptian priest, placed him upon the steps of the Temple of 
Serapis, and commanded that he should, in the manner of the 
pagan ministers, present palm-branches to the multitude who went 
up into the shrine. But the courageous Christian disappointed 
their views. Holding forth the branches with an unshrinking 
hand, he cried aloud, '■ Come hither and take the branch — not of an 
idol temple, but of Christ.' 

'' So indefatigable was this learned father in his studies that while 



Thomas Moore. 577 

composing his ^ CommentciiT on the Scriptures,' he was attended 
by seven scribes or notaries, who relieved each other in recording 
the dictates of his eloquent tongue, while the same number of young 
females, selected for the beauty of their penmanship, were employed 
in arranging and transcribing the precious leaves/^ 

^^ Among the scribes so selected was the fair young Theora, wliose 
parents, though attached to the pagan worship, were not unwilling 
to profit by the accomplishments of their daughter thus occupied in 
a task which they looked on as purely mechanical. To the maid 
herself, however, her employment brought far other feelings and 
consequences. She read anxiously as she wrote, and the divine 
truths so eloquently illustrated found their way by degrees from the 
page to her heart. Deeply, too, as the written words affected her, the 
discourses from the lips of the great teacher himself, which she had 
frequent opportunities of hearing, sunk still more deeply into her 
mind. There was at once a sublimity and gentleness in his views 
of religion which to the tender hearts and lively imaginations of 
women never failed to appeal with convincing power. Accordingly 
the list of his female pupils was numerous, and the names of Bar- 
bara, Juliana, Herais, and others, bear honorable testimony to his 
influence over that sex. 

^^ To Theora the feeling with which his discourses inspired her 
was like a new soul, a consciousness of spiritual existence never be- 
fore felt. By the eloquence of the comment she was awakened 
into admiration of the text, and when, by the kindness of a cate- 
chumen of the school, who had been struck by her innocent zeal, 
she for the first time became a possessor of a copy of the Scriptures 
she could not sleep for thinking of her sacred treasure. With a 
mixture of pleasure and fear, she hid it from all eyes, and was like 
one who had received a divine guest under her roof and felt fearful 
of betraying its divinity to the world. 

^^ A heart so awake would have been with ease secured to the 
faith had her opportunities of hearing the sacred word continued ; 
but circumstances arose to deprive her of this advantage. The mild 
Origen, long harrassed and thwarted in his labors by the tyranny of 
Demetrius, Bishop of Alexandria, was obliged to relinquish his 
school and fly from Egypt. The occupation of the fair scribe was 
therefore at an end, lier intercourse with the followers of the new 

2' It was during the composition of his great critical work, the " Hexapla," that Ori- 
gen employed these female scribes. 



578 The Pilose and Poetry of Ireland. 

faith ceased, and the growing enthusiasm of her heart gave way to 
more worldly impressions. 

'' Among other earthly feelings, love conduced not a little to wean 
her thoughts from the true religion. AYhile still very young, she 
became the wife of a Greek adventurer who had come to Egypt as a 
purchaser of that rich tapestry in which the needles of Persia are 
rivalled by the looms of the Xile. Having taken his young bride 
to Memphis, which was still the great mart of this merchandise, he 
there, in the midst of his speculations, died, leaving his widow on 
the point of becoming a mother, while as yet but in her nineteenth 
year. 

'^ For single and unprotected females it has been, at all times, a 
favorite resource to seek for employment in the service of some of 
those great temples by which so large a portion of the wealth and 
power of Eg^'j^t is absorbed. In most of these institutions there 
exists an order of priestesses, which, though not hereditary like that 
of the 2^riests, is provided for by ample endowments, and confers 
that dignity and station with which, in a government so theocratic, 
religion is sure to invest even her humblest handmaids. From 
the general policy of the Sacred College of MemjDhis, we take 
for granted that an accomplished female like Theora found but 
little difficulty in being elected one of the priestesses of Isis, and 
it was in the service of the subterranean shrines that her ministry 
chiefly lay. 

'^' Here, a month or two after her admission, she gave birth to 
Alethe, who first opened her eyes among the unholy ^^onips and 
sjDecious miracles of this mysterious region. Though Theora, as we 
liave seen, had been diverted by other feelings from her first enthu- 
siasm for the Christian faith, she had never wholly forgot the im- 
pression then made upon her. The sacred volume which the pious 
catechumen had given her was still treasured with care, and though 
she seldom opened its pages, there was always an idea of sanctity 
associated with it in her memorv, and often would she sit to look 
upon it with reverential pleasure, recalling the hapj)iness she had 
felt when it was first made her own. 

''The leisure of her new retreat and the lone melancholy of wid- 
owhood led her still more frequently to indulge in such thoughts, 
and to recur to those consolino- truths which she had heard in the 
school of Alexandria. She now began to peruse eagerly the sacred 
volume, drinking deep of the fountain of which she before but 



Thomas Moore. 579 

tasted, and feeling — what tliousaiids of mourners since her have 
felt — that Ohristianifcy is the true and only religion of the sor- 
rowful. 

^'^This study of her secret hours became still more dear to her, 
as well from the peril with which at that period it was attended as 
from the necessity she felt herself under of concealing from those 
around her the precious light that had been thus kindled in her 
own heart. Too timid to encounter the fierce persecution which 
awaited all who were suspected of a leaning to Christianity, she 
continued to officiate in the pomps and ceremonies of the temple, 
though often witli such remorse of soul that she would pause, in 
the midst of the rites, and pray inwardly to God that he would for- 
give this profanation of his Sjoirit. 

" In the meantime her daughter, the young Alethe, grew up still 
lovelier than herself, and added every hour both to her happiness 
and her fears. "When arrived at a sufficient age, she was taught, 
like the other children of the priestesses, to take a share in the ser- 
vice and ceremonies of the shrines. The duty of some of these 
young servitors was to look after the flowers for the altar, of others 
to take care that the sacred vases were filled every day with fresh 
water from the N^ile. The task of some was to preserve in perfect 
polish those silver images of the moon which the priests carried in 
processions, while others were, as we have seen, employed in feed- 
ing the consecrated animals, and in keeping their plumes and scales 
bright for the admiring eyes of their worshippers. 

'^The office allotted to Alethe, the most honorable of these 
minor ministries, was to wait upon the sacred birds of the moon, 
to feed them daily with those eggs from the Mle which they loved, 
and to provide for tlieir use that purest water, which alone these 
delicate birds wdll touch. This employment was the delight of 
her childish hours, and that ibis which Alciphron (the Epicurean) 
saw lier dance round in the temple was, of all the sacred flock, her 
especial favorite, and had been daily fondled and fed by her from 
infancy. 

^' Music, as being one of the chief spells of this enchanted region, 
was an accomplishment required of all its ministrants, and the 
harp, the lyre, and the sacred flute sounded nowhere so sweetly as 
through these subterranean gardens. The chief object, indeed, in 
the education of the youth of the temple, was to fit them, by every 
grace of art and nature, to give effect to the illusion of those shows 



580 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

and phantasms in wliicli the entire charm and secret of initiation 
lay. 

*' Among the means employed to support the old system of super- 
stition against the infidelity and, still more, the new faith that 
menaced it, was an increased display of splendor and marvels in 
those mysteries for which Egypt has so long been celebrated. Of 
these ceremonies so many imitations had, under various names, 
multiplied throughout Europe that at length the parent super^ 
stition ran a risk of being eclipsed by its progeny, and in order still 
to rank as the first priesthood in the world, it became necessary for 
those of Egypt to remain still the best imposters. 

^^ Accordingly, every contrivance that art could devise or labor 
execute — every resource that the wonderful knowledge of the priests 
in pyrotechny, mechanics, and dioptrics could command, was 
brought into action to heighten the effect of their mysteries and 
give an air of enchantment to everything connected with them. 

" The final scene of beatification, the Elysium into which the 
initiate was received, formed, of course, the leading attraction of 
these ceremonies, and to render it captivating alike to the senses of 
the man of pleasure and the imagination of the spiritualist, was the 
great object to which the attention of the Sacred College was de^ 
voted. By the influence of the priests of Memphis over those of the 
other temples, they had succeeded in extending their subterranean 
frontier, both to the north and south, so as to include within their 
ever-lighted paradise some of the gardens excavated for the use of 
the other Twelve Shrines. 

" The beauty of the young Alethe, the touching sweetness of her 
voice, and the sensibility that breathed throughout her every look 
and movement, rendered her a powerful auxiliary in such appeals to 
the imagination. She had been, accordingly, in her very childhood 
selected from among her fair companions as the most worthy repre- 
sentative of spiritual loveliness in those pictures of Elysium — those 
scenes of another world — by which not only the fancy, but the reason 
of the excited aspirants was dazzled. 

'^ To the innocent child herself these shows were pastime. But 
to Theora, who knew too well the imposition to which they were 
subservient, this profanation of all that she loved was a perpetual 
source of horror and remorse. Often would she, when Alethe stood 
smiling before her, arrayed, perhaps, as a spirit of the Elysian 
world, turn away with a shudder from the happy child, almost 



Thomas Moore, 581 

fancying she saw already the shadows of sin descending over that 
innocent brow as she gazed upon it. 

*• As the intellect of the young maid became more active and en- 
quiring, the apprehensions and difficulties of the mother increased. 
Afraid to communicate her own preciotis secret, lest she shoidd in- 
Tolve her cliild in the dangers that encomj^assed it, she yet felt it to 
be no less a cruelty than a crime to leave her wholly immersed in 
the darkness of j^aganisnu In this dilemma the only resource that 
remained to her was to select and disengage from the dross that 
suiTOunded them those pure particles of truth which lie at the bot- 
tom of all rehgions — ^those feelings, rather than doctrines, of which 
God has never left his creatures destitute, and which in all ages 
have furnished to those who sought after it some clue to his gloiy. 

' ' The unity and perfect goodness of the Creator, the fall of the 
human soul into corruption, its struggles with the darkness of this 
world, and its final redemption and reascent to the source of all 
spirit : these natural solutions of the problem of our existence, these 
elementary grounds of all religion and virtue which Theora had 
heard illustrated by her Christian teacher, lay also, she knew, veiled 
under the theology of Egypt, and to impress them in their abstract 
purity upon the mind of her susceptible pupil was, in defatilt of 
more heavenlv lisrhts, her sole ambition and care. 

^*It was srenerallv their habit, after devotinof their morninsrs to 
the service of the temple, to pass their evenings and nights in one 
of those small mansions above ground allotted within the precincts 
of the Sacred College to some of the most favored priestesses. Here, 
out of the reach of those gross superstitions which pursued them 
at every step below, she endeavored to inform, as fiir as she could 
venture, the mind of her beloved girl, and found it lean as naturally 
and instinctively to truth as plants long shut up in darkness will 
when light is let in upon them incline themselves to its rays. 

*' Frequently, as they sat together on the terrace at night admir- 
ing that glorious assembly of stars whose beauty first misled man- 
kind into idolatry, she would explain to the young listener by what 
^gradations of error it was that the worship thus transferred from 
the Creator to the creature stmk still lower and lower in the scale 
of being till man at length presumed to deify man, and by the most 
monstrous of inversions heaven was made the mere mirror of earth, 
reflecting back all it3 most earthly features. 

* Even in the temple itself the anxious mother would endeavor 



582 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

to interpose her purer lessons among the idolatrous ceremonies in 
which they were engaged. When the favorite ibis of Alethe took 
its station upon the shrine, and the young maiden was seen ap- 
proaching, with all the gravity of worship, the very bird which she 
had played with but an hour before — when the acacia-bough which 
she herself had 23lucked seemed to acquii^e a sudden sacredness in 
her eyes as soon as the priest had breathed upon it — on all such 
occasions Theora, thous^h with fear and tremblins:, would venture 
to suggest to the youthful worshi^^per the distinction that should 
be drawn between the sensible object of adoration and that spiritual, 
unseen Deity of which it was but the remembrancer or type. 

'^With sorrow, however, she soon discovered that in thus but 
partially letting in light upon a mind far too ardent to rest satisfied 
with such glimmerings she but bewildered the heart which she 
meant to guide, and cut down the feeble hope around which its 
faith twined, without substituting any other support in its place. 
As the beauty, too, of Alethe began to attract all eyes, new fears 
crowded upon the mother's heart — fears in which she was but too 
much justified by the characters of some of those around her. 

^* In this sacred abode, as mav easilv be conceived, moralitv did 
not always go hand in hand with religion. Tiie h}^30critical and 
ambitious Orcus, who was at this period high-priest of Memphis, 
was a man in every respect qualified to preside over a system of such 
splendid fraud. He had reached that effective time of life when 
enoucrh of the warmth and vis^or of vouth remains to o^ive anima- 
tion to the counsels of age. But in his instance youth had left 
only the baser passions behind, while age but brought with it a 
more refined maturity of mischief. The advantages of a faith aji- 
pealing almost wholly to the senses were well understood by him, nor 
had he failed either to discover that in order to render religion sub- 
servient to his own interests he must shaj^e it adroitly to the interests 
and passions of others. 

'' The state of anxiety and remorse in which the mind of the 
haj^less Theora was kept by the scenes, however artfully veiled, 
which she daily ^vitnessed cU'ound her became at length intolerable. 
Xo perils that the cause of truth could bring with it would be half 
so dreadful as this endurance of sinfulness and deceit. Her child 
was as yet pure and innocent, but, without that sentinel of the soul, 
religion, how long might she continue so ? 

" This thought at once decided her. All other fears vanished 



TJionias Moore. 583 

before it. She resolved instantly to lav oi>en to Alethe tlie whole 
secret of her soul : to make this child, who was her only hope on 
earth, the sharer of all her hopes in heaven, and then fly with her, 
as soon as possible, from this unhallowed spot to the far desert, to 
the monntains, to any place, however desolate, where God and the 
consciousness of innocence might be with them. 

^' The promptitude with which her young pupil caught fi-om her 
the divine truths was even beyond what she exi>ected. It was like 
the lighting of one torch at another, so prepai-ed was Alethe *s mind 
for the illumination. Amply, indeed, was the anxious mother now 
repaid for all her misery by this perfect communion of love and 
faith, and by the delight with which she saw her beloved child, like 
the young antelope when first led by her dam to the well, drink 
thirstily by her side at the source of all life and truth. 

•• But such happiness was not long to last. The anxieties that 
Theora had suffered began to ^^rey ujx)n her health. She felt her 
strength daily decline, and the thoughts of leaving, alone and un- 
guarded in the world, that treasure which she had just devoted to 
heaven, gave her a feeling of desj^air wliich but hastened the ebb of 
life. Had she put in practice her resolution of flying from this 
place, her child might have been now beyond the reach of all she 
dreaded, and in the solitude of the desert would have f otmd at least 
safety from wrong. But the very happiness she had felt in her new 
task diverted her from this project, and it was now too late, for 
she was already dying. 

'^ She still continued, however, to conceal the state of her health, 
from the tender and sansruine crirl, who. though observinof the 
traces of disease on her mother's cheek, little knew that they were 
the hastening footsteps of death, nor even thotight of the possibility 
of ever losing what was so dear to her. Too soon, however, the 
moment of separation arrived, and while the anguish and dismay 
of Alethe were in proportion to the security in which she had 
indulged, Theora, too, felt, with bitter regret, that she had sacri- 
ficed to her fond consideration much precious time, and that there 
now remained but a few brief and painful moments for the com- 
mtinication of all those wishes and instructions on which the future 
destiny of the young oi-phan depended. 

•'•' She had, indeed, time for little more than to place the sacred 
volume solemnly in her hands : to implore that she would, at all 
risks, fly from this unholy place : and, pointing in the direction of 



584 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

the mountains of the Suid, to name with her last breath the venera- 
ble man to whom, under heaven, she looked for the protection and 
salvation of her child. 

'^ The first violence of feeling to which Alethe gave way was suc- 
ceeded by a fixed and tearless grief, which rendered her insensible 
for some time to the dangers of her situation. Her sole comfort 
consisted in visiting that monumental chapel where the beautiful 
remains of Theora lay. There, night after night, in contemplation 
of those placid features, and in j)rayersfor the peace of the departed 
spirit, did she pass her lonely and, however sad they were, happiest 
hours. Though the mystic emblems that decorated that chapel were 
but ill-suited to the slumber of a Christian, there was one among 
them, the cross, which, by a remarkable coincidence, is an emblem 
alike common to the Gentile and the Christian, being to the former 
a shadowy type of that immortality of which to the latter it is a 
substantial and assuring pledge. 

^'Nightly upon this cross, which she had often seen her lost 
mother kiss, did she breathe forth a solemn and heartfelt vow 
never to abandon the faith which that departed spirit had bequeathed 
to her. To such enthusiasm, indeed, did her heart at such mo- 
ments rise that but for the last injunctions of those pallid lips she 
would at once have avowed her perilous secret, and boldly pronounce 
the words, ^ I am a Christian,' among those benighted shrines ! 

" But the will of her to whom she owed more than life was to be 
obeyed. To escape from this haunt of superstition must now, she 
felt, be her first object, and in planning the means of effecting it 
her mind, day and night, was employed. It was with a loathing 
not to be concealed that she now found herself compelled to resume 
her idolatrous services at the shrine. To some of the ofl&ces of 
Theora she succeeded, as is the custom, by inheritance, and in the 
performance of these tasks, sanctified as they were in her eyes by 
the pure spirit she had seen engaged in them, there was a sort of 
melancholy pleasure in which her sorrow found relief. But the 
part she was again forced to take in the scenic shows of the myste- 
ries brought with it a sense of degradation and wrong which she 
could no longer endure. 

^' Already had she formed in her own mind a plan of escape, in 
which her acquaintance with all the windings of this mystic realm 
gave her confidence, when the solemn reception of Alciphron as an 
initiate took place. 



Thomas Moore. 585 

" From the first moment of the landing of that philosopher at 
Alexandria he had become an object of suspicion and watchf alness 
to tne inqnisitorial Orcus, whom philosophy, in any shape, natnrally 
alarmed, but to whom the sect over which the yonng Athenian pre- 
sided was particnlarly obnoxious. The accomplishments of Alci- 
phron, his popularity wherever he went, and the bold freedom with 
which he indulged his wit at the ex|>ense of religion, were all faith- 
fully reported to the high-priest by his spies, and awakened in his 
mind no kindly feelings towards the stranger. In dealing with an 
infidel, such a personage as Orcus could know no other altematiTe 
but that of either converting or destroying him, and though his 
spite as a man would have been more gratified by the latter pro- 
ceeding, his pride as a priest led him to prefer the triumph of the 
former. 

'' The first descent of the Epicurean into the pyramid became 
speedily known, and the alarm was immediately given to the priests 
below. As soon as they had discovered that the young philosopher 
of Athens was the intruder, and that he not only still continued to 
linger around the pyramid, but was observed to look often and wist- 
fully towards the jwrtal, it was concluded that his curiosity would 
impel him to try a second descent, and Orcus, blessing the good 
chance which had thus brought the wild bird into his net, resolved 
not to suffer an opportunity so precious to be wasted. 

'• Instantly the whole of that wonderful machinery by which the 
phantasms and illusions of initiation are produced were put in active 
preparation throughout that subterranean realm, and the increased 
stir and vimlance awakened amonsr its inmates bv this more than 
ordinary display of the resources of priestcraft rendered the accom- 
plishment of Alethe's ptirpose at such a moment peculiarly difficult. 
"Wholly ignorant of the important share which it had been her own 
fortune to take in attracting the young philosopher down to this 
region, she but heard of him vaguely as the chief of a great Grecian 
sect, who had been led, by either ctiriosity or accident, to expose 
himself to the first trials of initiation, and whom the priests, she 
could see, were endeavoring to ensnare in their toils by every art and 
lure with which their dark science had gifted them. 

•* To her mind the image of a philosopher such as Alciphron had 
been represented to her came a^ociated with ideas of age and 
reverence, and more than once the possibility of his being made 
instrumental to her deliverance flashed a hope across her heart in 



586 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

which she could not refniin from indulging. Often had she been 
told by Theoniof the many Gentile sages who had laid their Avisdom 
down humbly at the foot of the cross ; and though this initiate, she 
feared, could hardly be among the number, yet the rumors which 
she had gathered from the servants of the temple of his undisguised 
contempt for the errors of heathenism led her to hope she might 
find tolerance, if not sympathy, in her appeal to him. 

" Nor was it solely with a view to her own chance of deliverance 
that she thus connected him in her thoughts with the plan which 
she meditated. The look of proud and self-gratulating malice with 
which the high-priest had mentioned this ' infidel,' as he styled 
him, when giving her instructions in the scene she was to act before 
the philosopher in the valley, too plainly informed her of the dark 
destiny that hung over him. She knew how many were the hapless 
candidates for initiation who had been doomed to a durance worse 
than that of the grave for but a word, a whisper breathed against 
the sacred absurdities that they witnessed ; and it Avas evident to 
her that the venerable Greek (for such her fancy represented Alci- 
phron) was no less interested in escaping from the snares and perils 
of this region than herself. 

"Her own resolution was, at all events, fixed. That visionary 
scene in which she had apj)eared before Alciphron, little knowing 
how ardent were the heart and imagination over which her beauty 
at that moment exercised its influence, was, she solemnly resolved, 
the very last unholy service that superstition or imposture should 
ever command of her. 

"■ On the following night the aspirant was to watch in the Great 
Temple of Isis. Such an opportunity of approaching and address- 
ing him might never come again. Should he, from compassion for 
her situation or a sense of the danger of his own, consent to lend 
his aid to her flight, most gladly would she accept it, well assured 
that no danger or treachery she might risk could be half so odious 
and fearful as those which she left behind. Should he, on the con- 
trary, reject the proposal, her determination was equally fixed — to 
trust to that God whose eye watches over the innocent, and go forth 
alone. 

" To reach the island m l^ake Moeris was her first great object, 
and there occuri-ed, fortunately, at this time a mode of effecting her 
purpose by which both the difficulty and dangers of the attempt 
would be much diminished. The day of the annual visitation of the 



Thovias Moore. 587 

high- priest to the Place of Weeping — as that island in the centre 
of the lake is called — was now fast approaching, and Alethe knew 
that the self-moving car by which the high-priest and one of the 
hierophants are conveyed down to the chambers under the lake 
stood then waiting in readiness. By availing herself of this expedi- 
ent, she would gain the double advantage both of facilitating her 
own flight and retarding the speed of her pursuers. 

*' Having paid a last visit to the tomb of her beloved mother, and 
wept there long and passionately, till her heart almost failed in the 
struggle, having paused, too, ^o give a kiss to her favorite ibis, 
which, although too much a Christian to worship, she was still child 
enough to love, she went early, with a trembling step, to the sanc- 
tuary, and there hid herself in one of the recesses of the shrine. Her 
intention was to steal out from thence to Alcij^hron while it was yet 
dark, and before the illumination of the great statue behind the 
veils had begun. But her fears delayed her till it was almost too 
late ; already was the image lighted \x^, and still she remained 
trembling in her hiding-place. 

'•In a few minutes more the mighty veils would have been with- 
drawn and the glories of that scene of enchantment laid open, 
when at length, summoning all her courage and taking advantage 
of a momentary absence of those employed in preparing this splen- 
did mockery, she stole from under the veil and found her way 
through the gloom to the Epicurean. There was then no time for 
explanation ; she had but to tnist to the simple words, * Follow, 
and be silent,' and the implicit readiness with which she found 
them obeyed filled her ^\ith no less surprise than the pliilosopher 
himself had felt in hearing them. 

'•' In a second or two they were on their way through the subter- 
ranean windings, leaving the ministers of Isis to waste their splen- 
dors on vacancy, through a long series of miracles and visions which 
thev now exhibited, unconscious that he whom thev were takina: 
such pains to dazzle was already, under the guidance of the young 
Chi'istian, far removed beyond the reach of their deceiving spells." 

CHAPTER xm. 

Such was the singular story of which this innocent girl now gave 
me, in her own touching language, the outline. 

The sun was just rising as she finished her narrative. Fearful of 
encountering the expression of those feelings with which, she could 



588 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

not but observe, I was affected by lier recital,- scarcely had she con- 
cluded the last sentence, when, rising abruptly from her seat, she 
hurried into the pavilion, leaving me with the words fast crowding 
for utterance to my lips. 

Oppressed by the various emotions thus sent back upon my heart, 
I lay dow^n on the deck in a state of agitation that defied even the 
most distant approaches of sleep. While every word she had uttered, 
every feeling she expressed, but ministered new fuel to that flame 
which consumed me, and to describe which passion is far too weak 
a word, there was also much of her recital that disheartened and 
alarmed me. To find a Christian thus under the garb of a Mem- 
phian priestess was a discovery that, had my heart been less deeply 
interested, would but have more powerfully stimulated my imagi- 
nation and pride. But when I recollected the austerity of the 
faith she had embraced, the tender and sacred tie associated with it 
in her memory, and the devotion of woman's heart to objects thus 
consecrated, her very perfections but widened the distance between 
us, and all that most kindled my passion at the same time chilled 
my hopes. 

Were we to be left to each other, as on this silent river, in such 
undisturbed communion of thoughts and feelings, I knew too well, 
I thought, both her sex's nature and my own to feel a doubt that 
love would ultimately triumph. But the severity of the guardian- 
ship to which I must resign her — that of some monk in the desert, 
some stern solitary — the influence such a monitor would gain over 
her mind, and the horror with which ere long he might teach her 
to regard the reprobate infidel upon whom she now smiled — in all 
this prospect I saw nothing but despair. After a few short hours, 
my dream of happiness would be at an end, and such a dark chasm 
must then open between our fates as would dissever them wide as 
earth from heaven asunder. 

It was true she was now wholly in my power. I feared no wit- 
nesses but those of earth, and the solitude of the desert was at 
hand. But though I acknowledged not a heaven, I worshipped 
her who was to me its type and substitute. If at any moment a 
single thought of wrong or deceit towards one so sacred arose in my 
mind, one look from her innocent eyes averted the sacrilege. Even 
passion itself felt a holy fear in her presence, like the flame trem- 
bling in the breeze of the sanctuary, and love, pure love, stood in 
place of religion. 



Thomas Moore. 589 

As long as I knew not her story, I could indulge at least in 
dreams of the future. But now what expectation, what prospect 
remained ? My single chance of happiness lay in the hope, how- 
ever delusive, of being able to divert her thoughts from the fatal 
project she meditated, of weaning her, by persuasion and argument, 
from that austere faith which I had before hated and now feared, 
and of attaching her, perhaps, alone and unlinked as she was in the 
world, to my own fortunes for ever. 

In the agitation of these thoughts I had started from my resting- 
place, and continued to pace up and down, under a burning sun, 
till, exhausted both by thought and feeling, I sunk down amid that 
blaze of light into a gleej^, which to my fevered brain seemed a sleep 
of fire. 

On awaking I found the veil of Alethe laid carefully over my 
brow, while she herself sat near me, under the shadow of the sail, 
looking anxiously upon that leaf which her mother had given her, 
and employed apj^arently in comparing its outlines with the course 
of the river, as well as with the forms of the rocky hills by which 
we were passing. She looked pale and troubled, and rose eagerly to 
meet me, as if she had long and impatiently waited for my waking. 

Her heart, it was plain, had been disturbed from its security and 
was beginning to take alarm at its own feelings. But though 
vaguely conscious of the peril to which she was exposed, her reli- 
ance, as is usual in such cases, increased with her danger, and upon 
me, far more than on herself, did she seem to depend for saving her. 
To reach as soon as possible her asylum in the desert was now the 
urgent object of her entreaties and wishes, and the self-reproach 
which she expressed at having for a single moment suffered her 
thoughts to be diverted from this sacred jDurpose not only revealed 
the truth that she li%d forgotten it, but betrayed even a glimmering 
consciousness of the cause. 

Her sleep, she said, had been broken by ill-omened dreams. 
Every moment the shade of her mother had stood before her, re- 
buking, with mournful looks, her delay, and 23ointing, as she had 
done in death, to the eastern hills. Bursting into tears at this 
accusing recollection, she hastily placed the leaf, which she had 
been examining, in my hands, and implored that I would ascertain, 
without a moment's delay, what portion of our voyage was still un- 
performed, and in what space of time we miglit hope to accom- 
plish it. 



590 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

I liad, still less than herself, taken note of either place or dis- 
tance, and, could we have been left to glide on in this dream of hap- 
piness, should never liave thought of pausing to ask where it would 
end. But such confidence was far too sacred to be deceived, and, 
reluctant as I naturally felt to enter on an enquiry which might 
soon dissipate even my last hope, her wish was sufficient to super- 
sede even the selfishness of love, and on the instant I proceeded to 
obey her will. 

There stands on the eastern bank of the Nile, to the north of An- 
tinoe, a high and steep rock impending over the flood, which has 
borne for ages, from a prodigy connected with it, the name of the 
Mountain of the Birds. Yearly, it is said, at a certain season and 
hour, large flocks of birds assemble in the ravine of which this 
rocky mountain forms one of the sides, and are there observed to go 
througli the mysterious ceremony of inserting each its beak into a 
particular cleft of the rock, till the cleft closes upon one of their num- 
ber, when all the rest of the birds take wing and leave the selected 
victim to die. 

Through the ravine rendered famous by this charm — for such 
the multitude consider it — there ran in ancient times a canal from 
the Nile to some great and forgotten city now buried in the desert. 
To a short distance from the river this canal still exists, but after 
having passed through the defile its scanty waters disappear and are 
wholly lost under the sands. 

It was in the neighborhood of this place, as I could collect from 
the delineations on the leaf — where a flight of birds represented the 
name of the mountain — that the abode of the solitary to whom Ale- 
the was about to consign herself was situated. Little as I knew of 
the geography of Egypt, it at once struck me that we had long since 
left this mountain behind, and on enquiring of our boatmen, I found 
my conjecture confirmed. We had, indeed, passed it on the preceding 
night ; and as the wind had been ever since blowing strongly from 
the north, and the sun was already sinking towards the horizon, we 
must be now at least a day's sail to the southward of the spot. 

This discovery, I confess, filled my heart with a feeling of joy 
which I found it difficult to conceal. It seemed as if fortune was 
conspiring with love in my behalf, and by thus delaying the mo- 
ment of our separation afforded me a chance at least of happiness. 
Her look and manner, too, when informed of our mistake, rather 
encouraged than chilled this secret hope. In the first moment of 



TJioyfias Moore, 591 

astonishment her eyes o|^ned ui>on me uith a suddenness of splen- 
dor under which I felt my o\m wink as though lightning had 
crossed them. But she again, as suddenly, let their lids fall, and, 
after a quiver 01 her lip, which showed the conflict of feeling then 
going on within, crossed her arms upon her 1x)Som and looked down 
ilently ujwn the deck, her whole countenance sinking into an ex- 
pression sad hut resigned, as if she now felt that fate was on the 
side of wrong, and saw love already stealing Ijetween her soul and 
heaven. 

I was not slow, of cotirse. in availing myself of what I fancied to 
be the irresolution of her mind. But still fearfol of exciting alarm 
by any appeal to feelings of regard or tenderness, I but addressed 
myself to her imagination and to that love of novelty and wonders 
which is ever ready to be awakened within the youthful breast. We 
were now approaching that region of miracles, Thebes. *'• In a day 
r two,'* said L •• we shall see towering above the waters the colos- 
sal Avenue of Sphinxes and the bright Obelisks of the Sun. We 
shall visit the plain of Memnon and l^ehold those mighty statues 
that fling their shadows at sunrise over the Libyan hills. We shall 
hear the image of the Son of the Morning responding to the first 
touch of light. From thenc-e, in a few hours, a breeze like this will 
rransjwrt us to those sunny islands near the cataracts, there to 
wander among the sacred palm-groves of Philae, or sit at noontide 
hour in those cool alcoves which the waterfall of Syene shadows 
tmder its arch. Oh I who is there that, with scenes of sucb loveli- 
ness within reach, would turn coldly away to the bleak desert and 
leave this fair world, with aU its enchantments, shining unseen and 
unenjoyed ? At least," I added, taking tenderly her hand in mine, 
** let a few more days l^e stolen from the dreary fate to which thou 
hast devoted thyself, and then — "* 

She had heard but the last few words, the rest had been lost 
upon her. Startled by the tone of tenderness into which, in spite 
i all my resolves, I had suffered my voice to soften, she looked for 
.ill instant with passionate earnestness into my face, then, drop- 
ping ui>on her knees with her clasped hands n praised, exclaimed : 
' • Tempt me not, in the name of God I implore thee — tempt me not 
to swerve from my sacred duty. Oh ! take me instantly to that 
desert mountain, and I will bless thee for ever. *' 

This appeal, I felt, could not be resisted, even though my heart 
were lx) break for it. Havinor silentlv intimated mv assent to her 



592 The Prose and Poetry of Irela7id. 

l^rayer by a slight pressure of her haud as I raised her from the 
deck, I proceeded immediately, as we were srill in full career for 
the south, to give orders that our sail shotild be instantly lowered, 
and not a moment lost in reti*acing our conrse. 

In giving these directions, however, it for the first time occuiTed 
to me that, as I had hired this yacht in the neighborhood of Mem- 
phis, where it was probable the flight of the yoting priestess would 
be most visfilantlv tracked, we shottld run the risk of betravins: to 
the boatmen the place of her retreat, and there was now a most fa- 
vorable opportunity for taking precautions against this danger. 
Desirinsr, therefore, that we should be landed at a small villasre on 
the shore, under pretence of paying a visit to some shrine in the 
neighborhood, I there dismissed our barge, and was relieved from 
fear of further observation by seeing it again set sail, and resume 
its course fleetly up the current. 

From tlie boats of all descriptions that lay idle beside the bank, I 
now selected one in every respect suited to my purj^ose, being, in 
its shape and accommodations, a miniature of our former vessel, 
but at the same time so lisfht and small as to be manacreable bv mv- 
self alone, and requiring, with the advantage of the current, little 
more than a hand to steer it. This boat I succeeded without much 
difficulty in i^urchasing, and after a short delay we were again afloat 
do^ii the current, the sun just then sinkinsf in conscious srlorv over 
his own £:olden shrines in the Libvan waste. 

The evening was calmer and more lovely than any that had yet 
smiled upon onr voyage, and as we left the shore a strain of sweet 
melodv came soothinsflv over our ears. It was the voice of a vounof 
Xubian girl, whom we saw kneeling before an acacia upon the bank, 
and singing, while her companions stood around, the wild song of 
invocation, which iu her cotmtry they address to that enchanted 
tree : 

*• AbTssinian tree ! 

We pray, we pray to thee ; 

By the glow of thy golden fruit. 

And the riolet hue of thy flower. 

And the greeting mnte 

Of thy bough's salute 

To the stranger who seeks thy bower." 

-' See an account of this sensitive tree, which bends down its branches to those w^ho 
approach it, in M. Jomard's ''Description of syene and the Cataracts." 



Thomas Moore. 593 

" O Aby apm Jan tree ! 

How the tzaTddra* Uesees Ifaee 
Whoi flie ni^il; no moon aOows, 
And tbe snnsel; hour is near. 
And thon bend'slt tiiy bo:iz^ 
To kisB his brows, 
S&jin^ * Come, rest thee here ' ! 
O Aby?finian tree ! 
Thus bow tiij head to me." 

In tlie burden of this song the companions of the yonng Xubian 
joined^ and we heard the words, "O AbysRinian tree!" dying 
away on the breeze long after the whole group had been lost to onr 
eyes. 

Whether in the new airangenient which I had made for onr Toy- 
age any motire besides those which I professed had a share I can 
tcareely even myself, so bewildeTed were then my feelings, deter- 
mine. Bnt no sooner had the cnrrent borne ns away from all 
human dwellings, and we were alone on the waters, with not a soul 
near, than I felt how closely such solitude draws hearts together, 
and how much more we seemed to belong to each other than when 
There were eyes around us. 

The same feeling, but without the same sense of its danger, was 

manifest in erery look and word of Alethe. The consciousness of 

The one great effort which she had made appeared to have satisfied 

her heart on the score of duty, while the deTotedness with which 

he saw I attended to her ererv wish was felt with all that trustinar 

mi O 

gratitude which in woman is the day-spring of Iotc. She was, 
therefore, happy, innocently happy, and the confiding and even af- 
fectionate unreserve of her manner, while it rendered my trust 
more sacred, made it also far more difficult. 

It was only, however, upon subjects unconnected with our situa- 
tion or fate that she yielded to such interchange of thought, or that 
her voice ventured to answer mine. The moment I alluded to the 
destiny that awaited us all her cheerfulne^ fled^ and she became 
saddened and silent- When I described to her the beauty of my 
own native land, its founts of inspiration and fields of glory, her 
"es sparkled with sympathy, and sometimes even softened into 
: jndne^. But when I ventured to whisper that in that glorious 
country a life fall of love and liberty awaited her ; when I pro- 
ceeded to contrast the adoration and bli^ she might command with 



594 'The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

the gloomy austerities of the life to which she was hastening, it 
was like the coming of a sudden cloud over a summer sky. Her 
head sunk as she listened, I waited in yain for an answer, and when, 
half playfully reproaching her for this silence, I stooped to take her 
hand, I could feel the warm tears fast falling over it. 

But even this, feeble as was the hope it held out, was still a 
glimpse of happiness. Though it foreboded that T should lose her, 
it also whispered that I was loved. Like that lake in the land of 
roses whose waters are half sweet, half bitter, I felt my fate to be 
a compound of bliss and pain, but its very pain well worth all ordi- 
nary bliss. 

And thus did the hours of that night pass along, while every mo- 
ment shortened our happy dream, and the current seemed to flow 
with a swifter pace than any that ever yet hurried to the sea. ]^ot 
a feature of the whole scene but lives at tliis moment freshly in 
my memory — the broken starlight on the water, the rippling sound 
of the boat as, without oar or sail, it went, like a thing of enchant- 
ment, down the stream ; the scented fire, burning beside us upon 
the deck ; and then that face on which its light fell, revealing at 
every moment some new charm, some blush or look more beautiful 
than the last. 

Often while I sat gazing, forgetful of all else in this world, our 
boat, left wholly to itself, would drive from its course, and, bearing 
us away to the bank, get entangled in the water-flowers or be caught 
in some eddy ere I perceived where we were. Once, too, when the 
rustling of my oar among the flowers had startled away from the 
bank some wild antelopes that had stolen at that still hour to drink 
of the Xile, what an emblem did I think it of the young heart then 
beside me, tasting for the first time of hope and love, and so soon, 
alas ! to be scared from their sweetness for ever. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

The night was now far advanced ; the bend of our course 
towards the left and the closing in of the eastern hills upon the 
river gave warning of our approach to the hermit's dwelling. 
Every minute now appeared like the last of existence, and I felt a 
sinking of despair at my heart which would have been intolerable 
had not a resolution that suddenly, and as if by inspiration, oc- 



Thomas Moore, 595 

curred to me, presented a glimpse of hope, which, in some degree, 
calmed my feelings. 

Much as I had, all my life, despised hypocrisy — the very sect I 
had embraced being chiefly recommended to me by the war they 
continued to wage upon the cant of all others — it was, nevertheless, 
in hypocrisy that I now scrupled not to take refuge from that 
calamity which to me was far worse than either shame or death — 
my separation from Alethe. In my despair I adopted the humili- 
ating plan — deeply humiliating, as I felt it to be, even amid the 
joy with which I welcomed it — of offering myself to this hermit 
as a convert to his faith, and thus becoming the fellow-disciple of 
Alethe under his care ! 

From the moment I resolved upon this plan my spirit felt 
lightened. Though having fully before my eyes the mean labyrinth 
of imposture into which it would lead me, I thought of nothing 
but the chance of our continuing still together. In this hope all 
pride, all philosophy was forgotten, and everything seemed tolerable 
but the j)rospect of losing her. 

Thus resolved, it was with somewhat less reluctant feelings that I 
now undertook^ at the anxious desire of my companion, to ascer- 
tain the site of that well-kno^vn mountain in the neighborhood of 
which the anchoret's dwelling lay. We had already passed one or 
two stupendous rocks, which stood detached like fortresses over the 
river's brink, and which in some degree corresponded with the 
description on the leaf. So little was there of life now stirring 
along the shores that I had begun almost to despair of any assistance 
from enquiry, when, od looking to the western bank, I saw a boat- 
man among the sedges, towing his small boat with some difficulty up 
the current. Hailing him as we passed, I asked: ^^ Where stands 
the Mountain of the Birds ? " And he had hardly time, as he pointed 
above us, to answer ^' There," when we perceived that we were just 
then entering into the shadow which this mighty rock flings across 
the whole of the flood. 

In a few moments we had reached the mouth of the ravine of 
which the Mountain of the Birds forms one of the sides, and 
through which the scanty canal of the Xile flows. At the sight of 
this awful chasm, within some of whose dreary recesses (if we had 
rightly interpreted the leaf) the dwelling of the solitary was to be 
found, our voices sunk at once into a low whisper, while Alethe 
turned round to me with a look of awe and eagerness, as if doubt- 



596 The P7'ose and Poetry of Ircla^id. 

ful whether I had not already disapi^eared from her side. A quick 
moTement, however, of her hand towards the ravine told too jilainly 
that her jDurpose was still unchanged. Immediately checkiug, 
therefore, with my oars the career of om- boat, I succeeded, after 
no small exertion, in turning it out of the current of the river, and 
steering into this bleak and stagnant canal. 

Our transition from life and bloom to the very depth of desola- 
tion was immediate. "While the water on one side of the ravine 
lay buried in shadow, the white, skeleton-like crags of the other 
stood aloft in the pale glare of moonlight. The sluggish sti'eam 
through which we moved yielded sullenly to the oar, and the shriek 
of a few water-birds, which we had roused from their fastnesses, 
was succeeded by a silence so dead and awful that our lips seemed 
afraid to disturb it by a breath, and half -whispered exclamations, 
^^ How dreary I '' ^^ How dismal I "' were almost the only words 
exchanged between ns. 

We had proceeded for some time through this gloomy defile, 
when, at a short distance before us, among the rocks upon which 
the moonlight fell, we could perceive, on a ledge elevated but a 
little above the canal, a small hut or cave, which, from a tree or 
two planted around it, had some appearance of being the abode of 
a human being. ^'^This, then," thought I, ^'is the home to which 
she is destined I " A chill of despair came again over my hearty 
and the oars, as I sat gazing, lay motionless in my hands. 

I found Alethe, too, whose eyes had caught the same object, 
drawing closer to my side than she had yet ventured. Laying her 
hand agitatedly upon mine, ^'We must here,*' said she, "part for 
ever.'*' I turned to her as she spoke; there was a tenderness, a 
despondency, in her countenance that at once saddened and in- 
flamed my soul. '•'Parti"' I exclaimed, passionately. '^'Xo; the 
same God shall receive us both. Thy faith, Alethe, shall from this 
hour be mine, and I will live and die in this desert with thee I '' 

Her surprise, her delight, at these words was like a momentary 
delirium. The wild, anxious smile with which she looked into my 
face, as if to ascertain whether she had indeed heard my words 
aright, bespoke a haj^piness too much for reason to bear. At length 
the fulness of her heart found relief in tears, and, murmuring 
forth an incoherent blessing on my name, she let her head fall 
languidly and powerlessly on my arm. The light from my boat- 
fire shone upon her face. I saw her eyes, which she had closed for 



Tkcnuis Moore, ^gj 

a nuHnent, agaun opening npon me wiUi ihe same tendenfeeB, and — 
merdfol Proyidence, how I lemember tliat moment ! — wa& on Ute 
point of bending down mj Hps tovazds hexs wlien gnddenlj, in the 
air aJboTe ns^ as if etmiing direct from liearen, tfaezebmatfoiili a. 
sixain of choral mn^ tliat wiHi its soleimi ?weeiness fiE^ tl^ 
whole TaDej. 

Bieaking away - - : " "^ r „ ::ral soondf, Ir 

i^ _ ilunew _ : : - . „ _ ; „ : : t daxxL _ 



»3reeij ie^ scartit i :1 _ i- . 7 ;;„____;_, I '. : 
at the yeiy summit c^i ; _:^ : 

imm a small opening " : . „ ~_ ; _ 

wise that had appears : _ _ : 

be no donht that we 1 ~ : :: ^ 

<^oiel^ at least the hi :i-t ; : = :i t ' „ t _ . 
th^e rods, by whose ; 7 - r : : . _ 

<jf his lelzeaL 

The agitaidon izii: i^l::_ J-lr:_e had been thrown 
bmstof that pgalro^y i . :: — T-i^i to the softening r 
vhidi itbion^L _ir- ; iine over her broir 

liad newer bef : : ~ _ t ^ e seemed to f^ 

had now reaclr - _ ^ l^iled as z. 

heaTen itself - _ _ _ _ ~ - ^«ib weik 

In her tr-. . -_ ; ~ ^:~~-~.:. _ "; - ~-:" : . :_;rQ. T?t 






tine 



noc long in d: ~ . : aih or stairway 

:1 T : : : 1: _ :_ g, ^.a i : ; / _ " easy windi: 

: ; T „ _ - _ : . L^-.iL^.l. siiii'ed at i -t~t- 



59S TJie Prose a7td Poetry of Ir€la7td, 

and whicli was planted liere and tliere with fig-trees and palms. 
Around it, too, I could perceiTe through the glimmering light a 
ntimber of small caves or grottos, into some of which human beings 
might find an entrance, while others apj^eared of no larger dimen- 
sions than those tombs of the sacred birds which are seen ranged 
around Lake Moeris. 

I was still, T found, but half-way up the ascent, nor was there 
yisible any further means of continuing my course, as the motmtain 
from hence rose, almost perpendictilai'ly, hke a wall. At length, 
however, on exploring more closely, I discovered behind the shade 
of a fig-tree a large ladder of wood resting firmly against the rock, 
and affording an easy and safe ascent up the steep. 

Having ascertained thus far, I again descended to the boat for 
Alethe, whom I fotmd trembhng already at her short soHtude, and 
having led her up the stairway to this quiet garden, left her lodged 
there securely amid its holy science while I pursued my way upward 
to the light upon the rock. 

At the top of the long ladder I found myself on another ledge or 
platform, somewhat smaller than the fij'st, but planted in the same 
manner with trees, and, as I cotild perceive by the mingled hght of 
momins: and the moon, embellished with flowers. I was now near 
the summit ; there remained but another short ascent, and, as a 
ladder against the rock supplied, as before, the means of scaling it, 
I was in a few minutes at the opening from which the hght issued. 

I had ascended gently, as well from a feehng of awe at the whole 
scene as from an unwillingness to disturb rudely the rites on which 
I intruded. My approach, therefore, being unheard, an opportu« 
nity was for some moments afforded me of observing the group within 
before my ajDpearance at the window was discovered. 

Li the middle of the apartment, which seemed to have been once 
a i3agan oratory, there was collected an assembly of about seven or 
eight persons, some male, some female, kneeling in silence round a 
small altar, while among them, as if presiding over their solemn 
ceremony, stood an aged man, who, at the moment of my arrival, 
was presenting to one of the female worshippers an alabaster cuji, 
which she applied, with profound reverence, to her lips. The 
venerable countenance of the minister, as he pronounced a short 
prayer over her head, wore an expression of profound feeling that 
showed how wholly he was absorbed in that rite ; and when she had 
drank of the cujt — which I saw had engraven on its side the image 



Thomas Moore, 599 

of a head " with a glory round it — the holy man bent down and 

kissed her forehead." 

After this parting salutation, the whole group rose silently from 
their knees, and it was then for the first time that, by a ciy of ter- 
ror from one of the women, the aj)pearance of a stranger at the 
window was discovered. The whole assembly seemed startled and 
alarmed except him, that suj^erior jierson, who, advancing from the 
altar with an unmoved look, raised the latch of the door adjoining 
to the window and admitted me. 

There was in this old man's features a mixture of elevation and 
sweetness, of simphcity and energy, which commanded at once at- 
tachment and homage ; and half hoping, half fearing, to find in 
him the destined smardian of Alethe, I looked anxiouslv in his face 
as I entered and pronounced the name •'•' Melauius." ** Melanius 
is my name, young stranger," he answered, *• and, whether in 
friendship or in enmity thou comest, Melanius blesses thee." Thus 
saying, he made a sign with his right hand above my head, while, 
with involuntary respect, I bowed beneath the benediction. 

'•' Let this volume," I rephed, ■ * answer for the peaceftilness of my 
mission," at the same time placing in his hands the copy of the 
ScriiDtures which had been his own gift to the mother of Alethe, and 
which her child now brought as the credential of her claims on his 
protection. At the sight of this sacred pledge, which he instantly 
recognized, the solemnity that had at first marked his reception of 
me softened into tenderness. Thoughts of other times appeared to 
pass through his mind, and as, with a sigh of recollection, he took 
the book from my hands, some words on the outer leaf caught his 
eye. They were few, but contained most probably the last wishes of 
the dying Theora, for, as he read them over eagerly, I saw tears in 
Ms aged eyes. *'* The trust," he said with faltering voice, ** is pre- 
cious and sacred, and God will enable, I hope, his servant to guard 
it faithfully." 

During this short dialogue the other persons of the assembly had 
departed, being, as I afterwards learned, brethren from the neigh- 
boring bank of the Xile, who came thus secretly before daybreak to 
join in worshipping their God. Fearful lest their descent down the 

*' There was usually, TertuHian tells us, the ima^ of Christ on the chalices. 

^3 " We are rather (iisi>osed to infer,"' says the late Bishop of Lincoln in his very sensi- 
ble "work on TertuUian, " that at the concJusion of all their meetings for the purpose of 
deTotion the early Christians -vrere accustomed to gire the kiss of peace in token of the 
brotherlT love subsistin? berween them^.'' 



6oo The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

rock might alarm Alethe, I hurried briefly over the few words of 
explanation that remained, and, leaving the venerable Christian to 
foJlow at his leisure, hastened anxiously to rejoin the young maiden. 

CHAPTER XV. 

Melanius was one of the first of those zealous Christians of 
Egypt who, following the recent example of the hermit, Paul, bade 
farewell to all the comforts of social existence, and betook them- 
selves to a life of contemplation in the desert. Less selfish, how- 
ever, in his piety than most of these ascetics, Melanius forgot not 
the world in leaving it. He knew that man was not born to live 
wholly for himself, that his relation to human kind was that of the 
link to the chain, and that even his solitude should be turned to the 
advantage of others. In flying, therefore, from the din and distur- 
bance of life, he sought not to place himself beyond the reach of its 
sympathies, but selected a retreat where he could combine all the 
advantages of solitude with those opportunities of being useful to 
his fellow-men which a neighborhood to their populous haunts 
' would afford. 

That taste for the gloom of subterranean recesses which the 
race of Misraim inherit from their Ethiopian ancestors had, by 
hollowing out all Egypt into caverns and crypts, supplied these 
Christian anchorets with an ample choice of retreats. Accordingly, 
some found a shelter in the grottos of Elethya, others among the 
royal tombs of the Thebaid. In the middle of the Seven Valleys, 
where the sun rarely shines, a few have fixed their dim and melan- 
choly retreat, while others have sought the neighborhood of the 
red lakes of Mtria, and there, like those pagan solitaries of old 
who fixed their dwelling among the palm-trees near the Dead Sea, 
pass their whole lives in musing amidst the sterility of nature, and 
seem to find in her desolation peace. 

It was one of the mountains of the Said, to the east of the river, 
that Melanius, as we have seen, chose his place of seclusion, having 
all the life and fertility of the Nile on one side and the lone, dis- 
mal barrenness of the desert on the other. Half-way down this 
mountain, where it impends over the ravine, he found a series of 
caves or grottos dug out of the rock, which had in other times 
ministered to some purpose of mystery, but whose use had long been 
forgotten and their recesses abandoned. 

To this place, after the banishment of this great master, Origen, 



Tho7?ias Moore. 60 1 

Melanins with a few faithful followers i"etired, and there, bv the 
example of his innocent life as well as by his fervid eloquence, suc- 
ceeded in winning crowds of conTerts to his faith. Placed as he was 
in the neiarhborhood of the rich citv, Antiuoe. thoucrh he minorled 
not with its multitude, his name and his fame were ever among 
them, and to all who sought after instruction or consolation the 
cell of the hermit was always open. 

Xotwithstanding the i-igid abstinence of his own habits, he was 
yet careftil to provide for the comforts of others. Content with a 
rude pallet of straw himself, he had always for the stranger a less 
Lomelv restinor-ijlace. From his ojotto the wavfarins: and the in- 
digent never went unrefreshed, and with the aid of some of his 
brethren he had formed gardens along the ledges of the mountain, 
which gave an air of life and cheerfulness to his rocky dwelling, and 
supplied him with the chief necessaries of such a cUmate — ^fruit and 
shade. 

Though the acquaintance he had formed with the mother of 
Alethe during the short period of her attendance at the school of 
Origen was soon interrupted and never afterwards renewed, the in- 
terest which he had then taken in her fate was far too lively to be 
forgotten. He had seen the zeal with which her yoting heart wel- 
comed instruction, and the thought that so promising a candidate 
for heaven should have relapsed into idolatry came often with dis- 
quieting apprehension over his mind. 

It was, therefore, with true pleasure that, but a year or two be- 
fore Theora's death, he had learned by a private communication 
from her, transmitted through a Christian embalmer of Memphis, 
that "not only had her own heart taken root in the faith, but that 
a new bud had flowered with the same divine hope, and that ere 
long he might see them both transplanted to the desert.'' 

The coming, therefore, of Alethe was far less a stirprise to him 
than her coming thus alone was a shock and a sorrow, and the silence 
of their first meeting showed how painfully both remembered that 
the tie which had brought them together was no longer of this 
world, that the hand which should have been then joined with theirs 
was mouldering in the tomb. I now saw that even religion hke his 
was not proof against the sadness of mortality. For, as the old man 
put aside the ringlets from her forehead, and contemplated in that 
clear cotmtenance the reflection of what her mother had been, there 
mingled a moumfulness with his piety as he said, •* Heaven rest her 



6o2 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

soul ! " which showed how little even the certainty of a heaven for 
those we love can reconcile us to the pain of having lost them on 
earth. 

The full light of day had now risen upon the desert, and our host, 
reminded by the faint looks of Alethe of the many anxious hours we 
had passed without sleep, proposed that we should seek, in the 
chambers of the rock, such rest as a hermit's dwelling could offer. 
Pointing to one of the largest of these openings, as he addressed 
me, ^' Thou wilt find," he said, ^^in that grotto abed of fresh 
doom-leaves, and may the consciousness of having protected the 
orphan sweeten thy sleep ! " 

I felt how dearly this praise had been earned, and already almost 
repented of having deserved it. There was a sadness in the counte- 
nance of Alethe as I took leave of her to which the forebodings of 
my own heart but too faithfully responded ; nor could I help fear- 
ing, as her hand parted lingeringly from mine, that I had, by this 
sacrifice, placed her beyond my reach for ever. 

Having lighted for me a lamp, which in these recesses even at 
noon is necessary, the holy man led me to the entrance of the 
grotto. And here, I blush to say, my career of h}^30crisy began. 
With the sole view of obtaining another glance at Alethe, I turned 
humbly to solicit the benediction of the Christian, and having con- 
veyed to her, while bending reverently down, as much of the deep 
feeling of my soul as looks could express, I then, with a desponding 
spirit, hurried into the cavern. 

A short passage led me to the chamber within, the walls of which 
I found covered, like those of the grottos of Lycopolis, with j^aint- 
ings, which, though executed long ages ago, looked as fresh as if 
their colors were but laid on 3'esterday. They were all of them 
representations of rural and domestic scenes, and, in the greater 
number, the melancholy imagination of the artist had called in, as 
usual, the presence of Death, to throw his shadow over the pic- 
ture. 

My attention was particularly drawn to one series of subjects, 
throughout the whole of which the same group — consisting of a 
youth, a maiden, and two aged persons, who app?ared to be the 
father and mother of the girl — were represented in all the details 
of their daily life. The looks and attitudes of the young people 
denoted that they were lovers ; and sometimes they were seen 
sitting under a canopy of flowers with their eyes fixed on each 



Thomas Moore. 603 

other's faces as though they could never look away; sometimes 
they appeared walking along the banks of the Nile — 

.... on one of those sweet nights 
When Isis, the pure star of lovers, lights 
Her bridal crescent o'er the holy stream ; 
When wandering youths and maidens watch ner beam, 
And number o'er the nights she hath to run 
Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun. 

Through all these scenes of endearment the two elder persons 
stood by, their calm countenances touched with a share of that bliss 
in whose perfect light the young lovers were basking. Thus far all 
was happiness, but the sad lesson of mortality was yet to come. In 
the last picture of the series one of the figures was missing. It was 
that of the young maiden, who had disappeared from among them. 
On the brink of a dark lake stood the three who remained, while a 
boat just departing for the City of the Dead told too plainly the end 
of their dream of happiness. 

This memorial of a sorrow of other times — of a sorrow ancient 
as death itself — was not wanting to deepen the melancholy of my 
mind, or to add to the weight of the many bodings that pressed 
upon it. 

After a night, as it seemed, of anxious and unsleeping thought, 
I rose from my bed and returned to the garden. I found the Chris- 
tian alone, seated, under the shade of one of his trees, at a small 
table, on which there lay a volume unrolled, while a beautiful ante- 
lope was sleeping at his feet. Struck by the contrast which he pre- 
sented to those haughty priests whom I had seen surrounded by the 
pomp and gorgeousness of temples, ^^ Is this, then," thought I, " the 
faith before which the world now trembles, its temple the desert, 
its treasury a book, and its high-priest the solitary dweller of the 
rock ? " 

He had prepared for me a simple, but hospitable repast, of 
which fruits from his own garden, the white bread of Olyra, and 
the juice of the honey-cane formed the most costly luxuries. His 
manner to me was even more cordial and fatherly than before ; 
but the absence of Alethe, and, still more, the ominous reserve 
with which he not only himself refrained from all mention of her 
name, but eluded the few enquiries by which I sought to lead to it^ 
seemed to confirm all the apprehensions I had felt in parting from 
her. 



6o4 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland, 

She had acquainted him, it was evident, with the whole history 
of our flight. My reputation as a philosopher, my desire to become 
a Christian, all was already known to the zealous anchoret, and the 
subject of my conversion was the very first on which he entered. 
O pride of philosophy ! how wert thou then humbled, and with 
what shame did I stand in the presence of that venerable man, not 
daring to let my eyes encounter his, while, with unhesitating trust 
in the sincerity of my intention, he welcomed me to a participation 
of his holy hope, and imprinted the. kiss of charity on my infidel 
brow ! 

Embarrassed as I could not but feel by the humiliating conscious- 
ness of hypocrisy, I was even still more j^erplexed by my almost 
total ignorance of the real tenets of the faith to which I professed 
myself a convert. Abashed and confused, and with a heart sick at 
its own deceit, I listened to the animated and eloquent gratulations 
of the Christian as though they were words in a dream without 
any link or meaning, nor could disguise but by the mockery of a 
reverent bow at every pause the total want of self-possession, and 
even of speech, under which I labored. 

A few minutes more of such trial, and I must have avowed my 
imposture. But the holy man perceived my embarrassment, and 
whether mistaking it for awe or knowing it to be ignorance, relieved 
me from my perplexity by at once changing the theme. Having 
gently awakened his antelope from its sleep, ^^ You have doubtless," 
he said, ^'^ heard of my brother-anchoret, Paul, who from his cave 
in the marble mountains near the Red Sea sends hourly the 
blessed ^ sacrifice of thanksgiving ' to heaven. Of Ills walks, they 
tell me, a lion is the companion ; ^* but for me," he added with a 
playful and significant smile, ' ^ who try my powers of taming but 
on the gentler animals, this feeble child of the desert is a far fitter 
playmate." Then taking his staff, and j)i^tting the time-worn 
volume which he had been j^erusing into a large goat-skin j^ouch 
that hung by his side, ''^I will now," said he, ^"'conduct thee over 
my rocky kingdom, that thou mayest see in what drear and barren 
places that 'sweet fruit of the spirit,' peace, may be gathered." 

To speak of peace to a heart throbbing as mine did at that mo- 
ment was like talking of some distant harbor to the mariner sink- 
ing at sea. In vain did I look around for some sign of Alethe, in 
vain make an effort even to utter her name. Consciousness of my 

8* Chateaubriand has introduced Paul and his lion into the " MartjTS," Uy. xi. 



Thonids Moore, 605 

own deceit, as well as a fear of awakening in the mind of Melaniim 
any suspicion that might tend to fmstrate my only hope, threw a 
fetter over my spirit, and checked my tongue. In humble silence, 
therefore, I followed, while the cheerful old man, with slow but 
firm step, ascended the rock by the same ladders which I had 
mounted on the preceding night. 

During the time when the Decian persecution was raging many 
Christians, as he told me, of the neighborhood had taken refuge 
under his protection in these grottos, and the small chapel upon 
the summit where I had found his flock at prayer was in those 
awful times of suffering their usual place of retreat, where, by 
drawing up these ladders, they were enabled to secure themselves 
from pursuit. 

The view from the top of the rock, extending on either side, em- 
braced the two extremes of f ertflitv- and desolation ; nor could the 
Epicurean and the anchoret, who now stood gazing from that 
height, be at any loss to indulge their respective tastes between the 
living luxuriance of the worid on one side and the dead, pulseless 
repose of the desert on the other. TVTien we turned to the river, 
what a picture of animation presented itseK ! Xear us to the 
soutii were the graceful colonnades of Antinoe, its proud, populous 
streets, and triumphal monuments- On the opposite shore rich 
plaius, all teeming with cultivation to the waters edge, seemed to 
offer up as from verdant altars their fruits to the sun, while beneath 
us the Xile — 

tlie g^fnloDs stream. 
That iaie becween its hanks was seen to glide. 
With ^iiirines and mazble cities on each side 
Gilittemig, like jewels sbnmg along a cham. 

Had I- : ^ se- : f : r:l its waters, and o'er plam 

And ^illrT. JL'z i. ^lant from his bed 

BisiDg with oatstretch'd hmbs, saperbbr spread. 

From this scene on one side of the mountain we had but to turn 
round our eyes to the other, and it was as if nature herself had be- 
come suddenly extinct — a wide waste of sands, bleak and intermina- 
ble, wearying out the sun with its sameness of desolation ; black, 
bumt-up rocks that stood as barriers at which Hfe stopped, while 
the only signs of animation, past or present, were the footprints 
here and there of an antelope, or ostrich, or the bones of dead 



6o6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

camels as tliey lay whitening at a distance, marking oTit the track 
of the caravans over the waste. 

After listening while he contrasted, in a few eloquent words, the 
two regions of life and death on whose confines we stood, I again de- 
scended with my guide to the garden that we had left. From thence, 
turning into a path along the mountain -side, he led me to another 
row of grottos facing the desert, which had been once, he said, the 
abode of those brethren in Christ who had fled with him to this 
solitude from the crowded world, but which death had, within a 
few short months, rendered tenantless. A cross of red stone and a 
few faded trees were the only traces these solitaries had left behind. 

A silence of some minutes succeeded while we descended to the 
edge of the canal, and I saw opposite among the rocks that solitary 
cave which had so chilled me with its aspect on the preceding 
night. Beside the bank we found one of those rustic boats which 
the Egyptians construct of planks of wild thorn, bound rudely to- 
gether with bands of papyrus. Placing ourselves in this boat, and 
rather impelling than rowing it across, we made our way through 
the foul and shallow flood, and landed directly under the site of the 
cave. 

This dwelling was situated, as I have already mentioned, on a 
ledge of the rock, and, being provided with a sort of window or 
aperture to admit the light of heaven, was accounted, I found, 
far more cheerful than the grottos on the other side of the ravine. 
But there was a dreariness in the whole region around to which 
light only lent additional horror. The dead whiteness of the rocks 
as they stood like ghosts in the sunshine, that melancholy pool, 
half lost in the sands, all gave to my mind the idea of a wasting 
world. To dwell in a place so desolate seemed to me a living death, 
and when the Christian, as we entered the cave, said, ^'^ Here is to be 
thy home," prepared as I had been for the worst, all my resolution 
gave way, every feeling of disappointed passion and humbled 
pride which had been gathering round my heart for the last few 
hours found a vent at once, and I burst into tears. 

Accustomed to human weakness, and j^erhaps guessing at some 
of the sources of mine, the good hermit, without aj)pearing to take 
any notice of this emotion, proceeded to expatiate with a cheerful 
air on what he called the comforts of my dwelling. Sheltered from 
the dry, burning wind of the south, my ^Dorch would inhale, he 
said, the fresh breeze of the Dog-star. Fruits from his own inoun- 



T/iomas Moore. 607 

tain garden should famish my repast. The well of the neighboring 
rock would supply my beverage ; and ** here." he continued, lower- 
ing his Toice into a more solemn tone as he placed upon the table 
the volume which he had brought, '*' here, my son, is that * well of 
liring waters' in which alone thou wilt find lasting refreshment or 
peace.*' Thus saying, he descended the rock to his boat, and. after 
a few plashes of his oar had died ujwn my ear, the solitude and si- 
lence that reigned around me was complete. 



What a fate was mine ! but a few weeks since presiding over that 
gay festival of the garden, with all the luxuries of existence tribu- 
tary in my train, and now — self-humbled into a solitary outcast, 
the hypocritical pupQ of a Christian anchoret, without even the 
excuse of religious fanaticism or any other madness but that of 
love, wild love, to extenuate my fall Were there a hope that by 
this humiliating waste of existence I might purchase now and then 
a momentary glimpse of Ale the, even the depths of the desert with 
such a chance would be welcome. But to live, and live thus, with- 
out her, was a misery which I neither foresaw nor could endure. 

Hating even to look upon the den to which I was doomed, I 
hurried out into the air, and found my way along the rocks to the 
deseri^ The sun was going down, with that blood-red hue which 
he so often wears in this climate at his setting. I saw the sands 
stretching out like a sea to the horizon, as if their waste extended 
to the verv verc^e of the worid. and in the bitterness of mv feelinojs 
rejoiced to see so large a portion of creation rescued, even by this 
barren liberiy, from the encroaching grasp of man. The thought 
seemed to relieve my wounded pride, and, as I wandered over the 
dim and boundless solitude, to be thus free, even amidst blight and 
desolation, appeared to me a blessing. 

The only living thing I saw was a restless swallow, whose wings 
were of the same hue with the gray sands over which he fluttered. 
•* Why," thought I, "may not the mind, hke this bird, partake of 
the color of the desert, and sympathize in its austerity, its freedom, 
and its calm ?*' thus vainly endeavoring, between despondence and 
defiance, to encounter with some degree of fortitude what yet my 
heart sickened to contemplate. But the effort was unavailing. 
Overcome by that vast solitude, whose repo^ was not the slimiljer 



6o8 The Prose aiid Poetry of Ireland, 

of jDeace, but ratlier the siilleu and burning silence of hate, I felt 
my spirit give way, and even love itself yielded to desj^air. 

Takiuo^ mv seat on a fraofment of a rock, and coverino^ niv eves 
with my hands, I made an effort to shut out the overwhelming 
prospect. But all in vain : it was still before me, with every addi- 
tional horror that fancv could suofofest : and when ao^ain lookins^ 
forth I beheld the last red ray of the sun shooting across the melan- 
choly and lifeless waste, it appeared to me like the light of that 
comet which once desolated this world, and thtts luridly shone out 
over the ruin that it had made. 

Appalled by my own gloomy imaginations, I turned towards the 
rayine, and, notwithstanding the disgust with which I had fled 
from mv dwellins:. was not ill pleased to find mv way over the rocks 
to it again. On approaching the cave, to my astonishment, I saw a 
liofht within. At such a moment any yestio:e of life was welcome, 
and I hailed the unexpected appearance with pleasure. On enter- 
ing, however, I found the chamber all as lonely as I had left it. The 
light I had seen came from a lamp that burned brightly on the 
table ; beside it was unfolded the volume which Melanius had 
brought, and uj^on the oj^en leayes — oh I joy and surprise — lay the 
well-known cross of Alethe. 

"What hand but her own could have prepared this recejotion for 
me ? The yery thought sent a hope into my heart before which 
all despondency fled. Eyen the gloom of the desert was forgotten, 
and mv rude cave at once bris^htened into a bower. She had here 
reminded me, by this sacred memorial, of the vow which I had 
pledged to her under the hermirs rock, and I now scrupled not to 
reiterate the same daring promise, though conscious that through 
hypocrisy alone could I fulfil it. 

Eager to prepare myself for my task of imposture, 1 sat down to 
the yolume, which I now found to be the Hebrew Scriptures, and 
the first sentence on which my eyes fell was, '• The Lord hath com- 
manded the blessing, even life for evermore.'" Startled by those 
words, in which it appeared to me as if the spirit of my dream had 
again pronounced his assuring prediction. ^^ I raised my eyes from 

^^ ■■ Many people."' said Origen. •• have been brought over to Christianity by the Spirit of 
God giving a sudden tujn to their minds, and offering visions to them either by day or 
night."' On this Jortin remarks: "Why should it be thought improbable that pagans of 
good dispositions, but not free from prejudices, should have been called by divine admo- 
nitions, by dreams or visions, which might be a support to Christianity in those days of 
distress ?"" 



TJiomas Moore. 609 

the page and repeated the sentence over and orer. as if to try 
whether in these sonnds there lav any charm or spell to reawaken 
that faded illtision in my sonL Bnt no; the rank frands of the 
Memphian priesthood had dispelled all my trust in the promises of 
religion. My heart had again relaj^ed into its gloom of scepticism, 
and to the word of ''life" the only answer it sent back was 
'•Death." 

Being impatient, howcTer, to possess myself of the elements of a 
faith npon which — whatever it might promise for hereafter — ^I felt 
that all my happine^ here dej^ended, I tnmed over the pages with 
an earnestness and avidity snch as never even the most favorite of 
my studies had awakened in me. Though, like all who seek but 
the surface of learning, I flew desultorily over the leaves, lighting 
only on the more prominent and shining points, I yet found myself 
even in this undisciplined career arrested at every page by the 
awful, the supernatural sublimity, the alternate melancholy and 
grandeur, of the images that crowded upon me. 

I had till now known the Hebrew theology but through the pla- 
tonizing refinement of PhQo, as, in like manner, for my knowledge 
of the Christian doctrine I was indebted to my brother Epicureans, 
Lncian and Celsus. Little, therefore, was my mind prepared for 
the simple majesty, the high tone of inspiration, the poetry, in 
short, of heaven that breathed throughout these oracle. Could 
admiration have kindled faith, I should that night have been a 
believer, so elevated, so awed was my imagination by that wonder- 
ful book — its warnings of woe, its announcements of glory, and its 
unrivalled strains of adoration and sorrow. 

Hour after hour, with the same eager and desultoiy curiosity, did 
I turn over the leaves, and when at length I lay down to rest, my 
:feincy was still haunted by the impre^ions it had received- I went 
again through the various scenes of which I had read, again called 
up in sleep the bright images that had passed before me, and when 
awakened at early dawn by the solemn hymn from the chapel, 
imagined that I was still listening to the sound of the winds sighing 
mournfully through the harps of Israel on the willows- 
Starting from my bed, I hurried out upon the rock, with a hope 
that among the tones of that morning choir I might be able to dis- 
tinguish the sweet voice of Alethe. But the strain had ceased : I 
caught only the last notes of the hymn, as, echoing up that lonely 
Tallev. thev died awav into the silence of the desert. 



6 lo The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

With tlie first glimpse of light I was again eagerly at my study, 
and, notwithstanding the frequent distraction both of my thoughts 
and looks towards the distant, half-seen grottos of the anchoret, 
continued my task with unabating perseverance through the day. 
Still alive, however, but to the eloquence, the j^oetry of what I 
studied ; of its claims to authority as a history I never once paused 
to consider. My fancy alone being interested by it, to fancy only 
I referred all that it contained, and, passing rapidly from annals to 
jiroi^hecy, from narration to song, regarded the whole but as a tissue 
of oriental allegories, in which the deep melancholy of Egyptian asso- 
ciations was interwoven with the rich and sensual imagery of the East. 

Towards sunset I saw the venerable hermit on his way across the 
canal to my cave. Though he was accompanied only by his grace- 
ful antelope, which came snuffing the wild air of the desert as if 
scenting its home, I felt his visit even thus to be a most welcome 
relief. It was the hour, he said, of his evening ramble up the 
mountain — of his accustomed visit to those cisterns of the rock from 
which he drew nightly his most precious beverage. While he spoke 
I observed in his hand one of those earthen cups ^^ in which it is the 
custom of the inhabitants of the wilderness to collect the fresh dew 
among the rocks. Having proposed that I should accompany him 
in his walk, he proceeded to lead me, in the direction of the desert, 
n23 the side of the mountain that rose above my dwelling, and which 
formed the southern wall or screen of the defile. 

Xear the summit we found a seat, where the old man paused to 
rest. It commanded a full view over the desert, and was by the side 
of one of those hollows in the rock, those natural reservoirs, in which 
are treasured the dews of night for the refreshment of the dwellers 
in the wilderness. Having learned from me how far I had advanced 
in my study, ''In yonder light,'' said he, pointing to a small cloud 
in the east which had been formed on the horizon by the haze of 
the desert, and was now faintly reflecting the splendors of sunset — 
'•'in the midst of that light stands Mount Sinai, of whose glory thou 
hast read, upon whose summit was the scene of one of those awful 
revelations in which the Almighty has renewed from time to time 
his communication with man, and kept alive the remembrance of 
his own Providence in this world." 

3s Palladius, who lived some time in Egypt, describes the monk Ptolemaeus, -who in. 
habited the desert of Secte, as collecting in earthen cups the abundant dew from the 
rocks.— "Bibliothec. Pat."' torn. xiii. 



Tkoj?ias Moore, 6ii 

After a i^ause, as if absorbed iii the immeiisity of the subject, the 
holy man continned his subHme theme. Looking back to the ear- 
liest annals of time, he showed how constantly eveiy relapse of the 
human race into idolatry has been followed by some manifestation 
of divine power, chastening the strong and proud by punishment 
and winning back the humble by love. It was to preserve, he 
said, unextinguished upon earth that great and vital truth — the 
creation of the world by one Supreme Being — that God chose from 
among the nations an humble and enslaved race, that he brought 
them out of their captivity ••'on eagles' wings,** and, still surround- 
ing every stej) of their course with miracles, has placed them before 
the eyes of all succeeding generations as the depositaries of his will 
and the ever-during memorials of his power. 

Passing, then, in review the long train of inquired interpreters, 
whose pens and whose tongues were made the echoes of the divine 
voice, he traced throughout the events of successive ages the gradtial 
unfolding of the dark scheme of Providence — darkness without but 
all light and glory within. The glimpses of a coming redemption, 
visible even through the wrath of Heaven — the loag series of pro- 
phecy through which this hoi)e runs burning and aUve, like a spark 
along a chain — the slow and merciful preparation of the hearts of 
mankind for the great trial of their faith and obedience that was at 
hand, not only by miracles that appealed to the hving, but by pro- 
l^hecies launched into the future to carry conviction to the yet un- 
born — ••'through all these glorious and beneficent gradations we 
may track,*' said he, •'•'the manifest footsteps of a Creator advanc- 
ing to his grand, ultimate end — ^the salvation of his creatures.*' 

After some hotirs devoted to these holy instructions, we returned 
to the ravine, and Melanius left me at my cave, praying, as he 
parted from me — with a benevolence which I but ill, alas I deserved 
— that my soul might, under these lessons, be **' as a watered gar- 
den,** and, ere long, ••'bear fruit unto life eternal.** 

Xext morning I was again at my study, and even more eager in 
the awakeninsc task than before. With the commentai-v of the her- 
mit freshly in my memory, I again read, through, with attention, 
the Book of the Law. But in vain did I seek the promise of im- 
mortality in its pages. " It teUs me,*' said I, ''of a God coming 
down to earth, but of the ascent of man to heaven it speaks not. 
The rewards, the punishments it announces lie all on this side of 
the grave; nor did even the Omnipotent offer to his own chosen 



6i2 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

servants a hope beyond the impassable limits of this world. Where,- 
then, is the salvation of which the Christian spoke ? or, if death be 
at the root of the faith, can life sj^ring out of it ? " 

Again, in the bitterness of disappointment, did I mock at my 
own willing self-delusion, again rail at the arts of that traitoress, 
Pancy, ever ready, like the Delilah of this wondrous book, to steal 
upon the slumbers of Reason, and deliver him up, shorn and power- 
less, to his foes. If deception, thought I, be necessary, at least let 
me not practise it on myself ; in the desperate alternative before 
me, let me rather be even hy|)ocrite than dupe. 

These self-accusing reflections, cheerless as they rendered my 
task, did not abate, for a single moment, my industry in pursuing 
it. I read on and on, with a sort of sullen apathy, neither charmed 
by style nor transported by inlagery, the fatal blight in my heart 
having communicated itself to my imagination and taste. The 
curses and the blessings, the glory and the ruin, which the historian 
had recorded and the prophet had predicted seemed all of this 
world — all temporal and earthly. That mortality of which the 
fountainhead had tasted tinged the whole stream; and when I 
read the words, ^^All are of the dust, and all turn to dust 
again," a feeling like the wind of the desert came witheringly 
over me. Love, beauty, glory, everything most bright and wor- 
shipped upon earth, appeared to be sinking before my eyes, 
under this dreadful doom, into one general mass of corruption and 
silence. 

Possessed by the image of desolation I had thus called up, 1 laid 
my head upon the book in a paroxysm of despair. Death in all 
his most ghastly varieties passed before me, and I had continued 
thus for some time, as under the influence of a fearful vision, when 
the touch of a hand upon my shoulder roused me. Looking up, I 
saw the anchoret standing by my side, his countenance beaming 
with that sublime tranquillity which a hope beyond this earth alone 
can bestow. How I did envy him I 

We again took our way to the seat uj^on the mountain, the gloom 
within my own mind making everything around me more gloomy. 
^Forgetting my hypocrisy in my feelings, I proceeded at once to 
make an avowal to him of all the doubts and fears which my study 
of the morning had awakened. 

" Thou art yet, my son," he answered, "^'but on the threshold of 
our faith. Thou hast seen but the first rudiments of the divine 2">lan ; 



Thomas Moore. 613 

•its full aud consummate perfection hath not yet opened upon thy 
mind. However glorious that manifestation of divinity on Mount 
Sinai, it was but the forerunner of another, still more glorious, 
which, in the fulness of time, was to burst upon the world ; when 
all that before had seemed dim and incomplete was to be perfected, 
and the promises shadowed out by the ' spirit of prophecy ' real- 
ized ; when the seal of silence, under which the future had so long 
lain, was to be broken, and the glad tidings of life and immortality 
proclaimed to the world ! " 

Observing my features brighten at these words, the pious man 
continued. Anticipating some of the holy knowledge that Avas in 
store for me, he "traced through all its wonders and mercies the 
great work of Eedemption, dwelling in detail upon every miraculous 
circumstance connected with it, the exalted nature of the Being by 
whose ministry it was accomplished, the noblest of Beings, the Son 
of G-od ; the mysterious Incarnation of this heavenly messenger ; 
tlie miracles that authenticated His divine mission ; the example of 
obedience to God and love to man which He set, as a shining light, 
before the world for ever ; and, lastly and chiefly. His death and 
resurrection, by which the covenant of mercy was sealed, and ^Hife 
and immortalitv brouo^ht to light." 

^^Such,*' continued the hermit, ^^ was the Mediator promised 
through all time to 'make reconciliation for iniquity,' to change 
death into life, and bring ' healing on his wings ' to a darkened 
world. Such was the last crowning dispensation of that God of 
benevolence, in whose hands sin and death are but instruments of 
everlasting good, and who through apparent evil and temporary re- 
tribution, brino'inff all thinsrs ' out of darkness into his marvellous 
light,' proceeds watchfully and unchangingly to the great, final ob- 
ject of his providence — the restoration of the human race to purity 
and happiness." 

With a mind astonished if not touched by these discourses, I re- 
turned to my cave, and found the lamp, as before, ready lighted to 
receive me. The volume which I had been hitherto studying was 
replaced by another, which lay open upon the table, with a branch 
of fresh palm between its leaves. Though I could not doubt to 
whose gentle and guardian hand I was indebted for this invisible 
watchfulness over my studies, there was yet a something in it so 
like spiritual interposition that it struck me with awe, and never 
more than at this moment when, on approaching the volume, I saw. 



6 14 The Prose and Poet7y of I7'ela7id, 

as the light glistened over its silver letters, that it was the very Book 
of Life of which the hermit had spoken. 

The midnight hymn of the Christians had soimded through the 
valley before I had yet raised my eyes fi'om that sacred volume, and 
the second hour of the sun found me again over its pages. 

CHAPTEB, XVn. 

In this mode of existence I Lad now passed some days, my morn- 
ings devoted to reading, my nights to listening, under the wide 
canopy of heaven, to the holy eloquence of Melanius. The perse- 
verance with which I enquired, and the quickness with which I 
learned, soon succeeded in deceiving my benevolent instructor, who 
mistook cui'iosity for zeal and knowledge for belief. Alas I cold 
and barren and eartlily was that knowledge — the word without the 
spirit, the shape without the life. Even when as a rehef from 
hypocrisy I persuaded myself that I believed, it was but a brief de- 
lusion, a faith whose hope crumbled at the touch like the fruit of 
the desert-shrtib, shining and empty. 

But though mv soul was still dark, the o-ood hermit saw not 
into its dej^ths. The very facility of my behef, which might have 
susfs^ested some doubt of its sinceritv, was but reararded bv his imio- 
cent zeal as a more signal triumph of the tioith. His own ingenu- 
ousness led him to a ready trust in others, and the examples of such 
conversion as that of the philosoj^her Justin, who, during a walk 
by the sea-shore, received the light into his soul, had prepared him 
for illuminations of the spirit even more rapid than mine. 

During all this time I neither saw nor heard of Alethe, nor could 
my patience have endured through so long a privation had not those 
mute vestiges of her presence that welcomed me every night on my 
return made me feel that I was still livins: under her orentle influ- 
ence, and that her sympathy hung round every step of my progress. 
Once, too, when I ventured to sj^eak her name to Melanius, though 
he answered not my enquiiw, there was a smile, I thought, of pro- 
mise upon his countenance, which love, far more alive than faith, 
was ready to interpret as it desired. 

At length — it was on the sixtli or seventh evening of my solitude, 
when I lay resting at the door of my cave after the study of the 
day — I was stai'tled by hearing my name called loudly from the 
opposite rocks, and looking up, saw upon the ciiff near the deserted 



Thomas Moore, 615 

grottos Melanius and — oh I I could not doubt — my Aletlie by liis 
side. 

Though I had never since the first night of my return from the 
desert ceased to flatter myself with the fancy that I was still living 
in her presence, the actual sight of her once more made me feel for 
what a long age we had been separated. She was clothed all in 
white, and, as she stood in the last remains of the sunshine, ap- 
peared to my too prophetic fancy like a parting spirit whose last 
footsteps on earth that pure glory encircled. 

With a delight only to be imagined I saw them descend the rocks, 
and, placing themselves in the boat, j^roceed directly towards my 
cave. To disguise from Melanius the mutual delight with which we 
again met was impossible, nor did Alethe even attempt to make a 
secret of her joy. Though blushing at her own happiness, as little 
could her frank nature conceal it as the clear waters of Ethiopia can 
hide their gold. Every look, every word, bespoke a fulness of affec- 
tion to which, doubtful as I was of our tenure of happiness, I knew 
not how to respond. 

I was not long, however, left ignorant of the bright fate that 
awaited me ; but, as we wandered or rested among the rocks, learned 
everything that had been arranged since our parting. She had 
made the hermit, I found, acquainted with all that had passed be- 
tween us ; had told him without reserve every incident of our V03'- 
age — the avowals, the demonstrations of affection on one side, and the 
deep sentiment that gratitude had awakened on the other. Too wise 
to regard affections so natural with severity, knowing that they were 
of heaven, and but made evil by man, the good hermit had heard of 
our attachment with pleasure, and, fully satisfied as to the honor and 
purity of my views by the fidelity with which I had delivered my 
trust into his hands, saw in my affection for the young orphan but a 
providential resource against that friendless solitude in which his 
death must soon leave her. 

As, listening eagerly, I collected these particulars from their dis- 
course, I could hardly trust my ears. It seemed a happiness too 
great to be true, to be real ; nor can words convey any idea of the 
joy, the shame, the wonder with which I listened while the holy 
man himself declared that he awaited but the moment when he 
should find me worthy of becoming a member of the Christian Church, 
to give me also the hand of Alethe in that sacred union which 
alone sanctifies love, and makes the faith which it pledges holy. It 



6i6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

was but yesterday, lie added, that his young charge herself, after a 
preparation of prayer and repentance, such as even her pure spirit 
required, had been admitted by the sacred ordinance of baptism into 
the bosom 'of the faith, and the white garment she wore and the 
ring of gold on her finger '^^were symbols," he added, ^^of that new 
life into which she had been initiated." 

I raised my eyes to hers as he spoke, but withdrew them again, 
dazzled and confused. Even her beauty, to my imagination, seemed 
to have undergone some brightening change, and the contrast be- 
tween that happy and open countenance and the unblest brow of 
the infidel that stood before her abashed me into a sense of unwor- 
thiness, and almost checked my rapture. 

To that night, however, I look back as an epoch in my existence. 
It proved that sorrow is not the only awakener of devotion, but that 
joy may sometimes quicken the holy spark into life. Returning to 
my cave with a heart full, even to oppression, of its happiness, I 
could find no other relief to my overcharged feelings than that of 
throwing myself on my knees and uttering, for the first time in my 
life, a heart-felt prayer^ that if, indeed, there were a Being who 
watched over mankind, he would send down one ray of his truth 
into my darkened soul and make it worthy of the blessings, both 
here and hereafter, proffered to it ! 

My days now rolled on in a perfect dream of happiness. Every 
hour of the morning was welcomed as bringing nearer and nearer 
the blest time of sunset, when the hermit and Alethe never failed to 
visit my now charmed cave, where her smile left at each parting a 
light that lasted till her return. Then our rambles together by 
starlight over the mountain ; our pauses, from time to time, to 
contemplate the wonders of the bright heaven above us ; our repose 
by the cistern of the rock; and our silent listening, through hours 
that seemed minutes, to the holy eloquence of our teacher — all, all 
was happiness of the most heartfelt kind, and such as even the 
doubts, the cold, lingering doubts, that still hung like a mist around 
my heart could neither cloud nor chill. 

As soon as the moonlight nights returned we used to venture into 
the desert, and those sands, which had lately looked so desolate in 
my eyes, now assumed even a cheerful and smiling aspect. To the 
light, innocent heart of Alethe everything was a source of enjoy- 
ment. For her even the desert had its jewels and flowers, and 
sometimes her delight was to search among the sands for those 



Thomas Moore. 617 

beautiful pebbles of jasper that abound in them ; sometimes her 
eyes would sparkle with pleasure on finding, j^erhaps, a stunted 
marigold, or one of those bitter, scarlet flowers that lend their dry 
mockery of ornament to the desert. In all these j^^irsiiits and 
pleasures the good hermit took a share, mingling occasionally with 
them the reflections of a benevolent piety that lent its own cheerful 
hue to all the works of creation, and saw the consoling truth, ^^ God 
is love," written legibly everywhere. 

Such was, for a few weeks, my blissful life. mornings of 
hope ! nights of happiness ! with what melancholy pleasure do I 
retrace your flight, and how reluctantly pass to the sad events that 
followed ! 

During this time, in compliance with the wishes of Melanius, who 
seemed unwilling that I should become wholly estranged from the 
world, I used occasionally to pay a visit to the neighboring city, 
Antinoe, which, being the capital of the Thebaid, is the centre of 
all the luxury of Upper Egypt. But here, so changed was my 
every feeling by the all-absorbing passion which now possessed me, 
that I sauntered along wholly uninterested by either the scenes or 
the people that surrounded me, and, sighing for that rocky solitude 
where my Alethe breathed, felt tliis to be the wilderness and that 
the world. 

Even the thoughts of my own native Athens, that at every step 
was called up -by the light Grecian architecture of this imperial 
city, did not awaken one single regret in my heart, one wish to ex- 
change even an hour of' my desert for the best luxuries and honors 
that awaited me in the garden. I saw the arches of triumph, I 
walked under the superb portico which encircles the whole city with 
its marble shade, I stood in the Circus of the Sun, by whose rose- 
colored pillars the mysterious movements of the Mle are measured — 
on all these proud monuments of glory and art, as well as on the 
gay multitude that enlivened them, I looked with unheeding eye. 
If they awakened in me any thought, it was the mournful idea that 
one day, like Thebes and Heliopolis, this pageant would pass away, 
leaving nothing behind but a few mouldering ruins, like sea-shells 
found where the ocean has been, to tell that the great tide of life 
was once there ! 

But though indifferent thus to 41II that had formerly attracted 
me, there were subjects once alipn to my heart on which it was now 
most tremblingly alive, and some rumors which had reached me in 



6i8 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

one of my visits to the city, of an expected change in the policy of 
the emperor towards the Christians, filled my mind with apprehen- 
sions as new as they were dreadful to me. 

The toleration and even favor which the Christians enjoyed dur- 
ing the first four years of the reign of Valerian had removed from 
them all fear of a renewal of those horrors which they had experi- 
enced under the rule of his predecessor, Decius. Of late, however, 
some less friendly dispositions had manifested themselves. The 
bigots of the court, taking alarm at the rapid spread of the new 
faith, had succeeded in filling the mind of the monarch with that 
religious jealousy which is the ever-ready parent of cruelty and in- 
justice. Among these counsellors of evil was Macrianus, the Prae- 
torian Prefect, who was by birth an Egyptian, and had long made 
himself notorious — so akin is superstition to intolerance — by his 
addiction to the dark practices of demon-worship and magic. 

Prom this minister, who was now high in the favor of Valerian, 
the new measures of severity against the Christians were expected 
to emanate. All tongues in all quarters were busy with the news. 
In the streets, in the public gardens, on the steps of the temples, I 
saw everywhere groups of enquirers collected, and heard the name 
of Macrianus upon every tongue. It was dreadful, too, to observe 
in the countenances of those who spoke the variety of feeling with 
which the rumor was discussed, according as they feared or desired 
its truth, according as they were likely to be among the torturers or 
the victims. 

Alarmed, though still ignorant of the whole extent of the danger, 
I hurried back to the ravine, and going at once to the grotto of 
Melanius, detailed to him every particular of the intelligence I had 
collected. He listened to me with a composure which I mistook, 
alas ! for confidence in his own security, and, naming the hour for 
our evening walk, retired into his grotto. 

At the accustomed time, accompanied by Alethe, he came to my 
cave. It was evident that he had not communicated to her the in- 
telligence which I had brought, for never hath brow worn such hap- 
piness as that which now played around hers ; it was, alas ! not of 
this earth. Melanius himself, though composed, was thoughtful, 
and the solemnity, almost approaching to melancholy, with which 
he placed the hand of Alethe in- mine — in the performance, too, of 
a ceremony that ouglit to have filled my heart with joy — saddened 
and alarmed me. This ceremony was our betrothment, the act of 



T nomas Moore, 619 

plighting our faith to each other, which we now solemnized on the 
rock before the door of my cave in the face of that calm, sunset 
heaven, whose one star stood as our witness. After a blessing from 
the hermit upon our spousal pledge, I placed the ring, the earnest 
of our future union, on her finger, and in the blush with which 
she surrendered to me her whole heart at that instant forgot 
everything but my happiness, and felt secure even against fate. 

We took our accustomed walk that evening over the rocks and on 
the desert. So bright was the moon — more like the daylight, in- 
deed, of other climes — that we could plainly see the tracks of the 
wild antelopes in the sand ; and it was not without a slight tremble 
of feeling in his voice, as if some melancholy analogy occurred to 
him as he spoke, that the good hermit said, ^^ I have observed in 
the course of my walks that wherever the track of that gentle ani- 
mal appears there is almost always found the foot-print of a beast 
of prey near it." He regained, however, his usual cheerfulness be- 
fore we parted, and fixed the following evening for an excursion on 
the other side of the ravine to a point looking, he said, ^'towards 
that northern region of the desert, where the hosts of the Lord en- 
camped in their departure out of bondage.'' 

Though when Alethe was present all my fears even for herself 
were forgotten in that perpetual element of hapjoiness which encir- 
cled her like the air that she breathed, no sooner was I alone than 
vague terrors and bodings crowded upon me. In vain did I en- 
deavor to reason away my fears by dwelling only on the most cheer- 
ing circumstances, on the reverence with which Melanius was re- 
garded even by the pagans, and the inviolate security with which 
he had lived through the most perilous periods, not only safe him- 
self, but affording sanctuary in the depths of his grottos to others. 
Though somewhat calmed by these considerations, yet when at 
length I sunk off to sleep, dark, horrible dreams took possession of 
my mind. Scenes of death and of torment passed confusedly be- 
fore me, and when I awoke it was with the fearful impression that 
all these horrors were real. 



CHAPTER XVin. 

At length the day dawned, that dreadful day I Impatient to be 
relieved from my suspense, I threw myself into my boat, the same 
in which we had performed our happy voyage, and as fast as oars 



620 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

could speed me hurried away to the city. I found the suburbs si- 
lent and solitary, but as I approached the forum loud yells, like 
those of barbarians in combat, struck on my ear, and when I en- 
tered it — great God, what a spectacle presented itself I The impe- 
rial edict against the Christians had arrived during the night, 
and already tbe wild fury of bigotry was let loose. 

Under a canopy in the middle of the forum was the tribunal of 
the governor. Two statues — one of Apollo, the other of Osiris — 
stood at the bottom of the steps that led up to his judgment-seat. 
Before these idols were shrines, to which the devoted Christians 
were dragged from all quarters by the soldiers and mob, and there 
compelled to recant, by throwing incense into the flame, or, on their 
refusal, hurried away to torture and death. It was an appalling 
scene ; the consternation, the cries of some of the victims, the pale, 
silent resolution of others ; the fierce shouts of laughter that broke 
from the multitude when the dropping of the frankincense on the 
altar proclaimed some denier of Christ ; and the fiend-like triumph 
with which the courageous confessors who avowed their faith were 
led awa}^ to the flames — never could I have conceived such an as- 
semblage of horrors ! 

Though I gazed but for a few minutes, in those minutes I felt 
and fancied enough for years. Already did the form of Alethe ap- 
pear to flit before me through that tumult ; I heard them shout her 
name, her shriek fell on my ear, and the very thought so palsied 
me with terror that I stood fixed and statue-like on the spot. 

Recollecting, however, the fearful preciousness of every moment, 
and that, perhaps, at this very instant some emissaries of blood 
might be on their way to the grottos, I rushed wildly out of the 
forum and made my way to the quay. 

The streets were now crowded, but 1 ran headlong through the 
multitude, and was already under the portico leading down to the 
river — already saw the boat that was to bear me to Alethe — when a 
centurian stood sternly in my path, and I was surrounded and 
arrested by soldiers I It was in vain that I implored, that I 
struggled with them, as for life, assuring them that I was a stran- 
ger, that I was an Athenian, that I was — not a Christian. The 
precipitation of my flight was sufficient evidence against me, and 
unrelentingly, and by force, they bore me away to tlie quarters of 
their chief. 

It was enough to drive me at once to madness ! Two hours, two 



Thomas Moore, 621 

frightful hours, was I kept waiting the arrival of the tribune of their 
legion, my brain burning with a thousand fears and imaginations, 
which every passing minute made but more likely to be realized. 
All I could collect, too, from the conversations of those around me 
but added to the agonizing apprehensions with which I was racked. 
Trooj^s, it was said, had been sent in all directions through the 
neighborhood to bring in the rebellious Christians and make them 
bow before the gods of the empire. With horror, too, I heard of 
Orcus — Orcus, the High-Priest of Memj^his — as one of the principal 
instigators of this sanguinary edict, and as here present in Antinoe, 
animatino- and directino- its execution. 

In this state of torture I remained till the arrival of the tribune. 
Absorbed in my own thoughts, I had not perceived his entrance, 
till, hearing a voice in a tone of friendly surprise, exclaim, ^' Alci- 
phron ! " I looked up, and in this legionary chief recognized a 
young Eoman of rank who had held a military command the year 
before at Athens, and was one of the most distinguished visitors of 
the garden. It was no time, however, for courtesies ; he was proceed- 
ing with all cordiality to greet me, but, having heard him order my 
instant release, I could wait for no more. Acknowledging his kind- 
ness but by a grasp of the hand, I flew off, like one frantic, through 
the streets, and in a few minutes was on the river. 

My sole hope had been to reach the grottos before any of the de- 
tached parties should arrive, and, by a timely flight across the desert, 
rescue, at least, Alethe from their fury. The ill-fated delay that 
had occurred rendered this hope almost desperate, but the tran- 
quillity I found everywhere as I proceeded down the river, and my 
fond confidence in the sacredness of the hermit's retreat, kept my 
heart from sinking altogether under its terrors. 

Between the current and my oars, the boat flew with the speed of 
wind along the waters, and I was already near the rocks of the 
ravine when I saw, turning out of the canal into the river, a barge 
crowded with people and glittering with arms ! How did I ever 
survive the shock of that sight ? The oars dropped, as if struck out 
of my hands, into the water, and I sat helplessly gazing as that 
terrific vision aj^proached. In a few minutes the current brought 
us together, and I saw, on the deck of the barge, Alethe herself and 
the hermit surrounded by soldiers I 

We were already passing each other when, with a desjoerate effort, 
I sprang from my boat and lighted upon the edge of their vessel. 



62 2 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

I knew not wliat I did, for despair was my only prompter. Snatcli- 
ing at the sword of one of the soldiers as I stood tottering on the 
edge, I had sncceeded in wresting it ont of his hands when, at the 
same moment, I received a thrust of a lance from one of his com- 
rades and fell backward into the river. I can just remember rising 
again and making a grasp at the side of the vessel, but the shock 
iind the faintness from my wound deprived me of all consciousness, 
and a shriek from Alethe as I sank is all I can recollect of what 
followed. 

Would that I had then died ! Yet no. Almighty Being, I should 
have died in darkness, and I have lived to know thee ! 

On returning to my senses, I found myself reclining on a couch in 
a splendid apartment, the whole appearance of which being Grecian, 
I for a moment forgot all that had passed, and imagined myself 
in my own home at Athens. But too soon the whole dreadful cer- 
tainty flashed upon me, and, starting wildly — disabled as I was — 
from my couch, I called loudly, and with the shriek of a maniac, 
upon Alethe. 

I was in the house, I then found, of my friend and disciple, the 
young tribune, who had made the governor acquainted with my 
name and condition, and had received me under his roof when 
brought bleeding and insensible to Antinoe. From him I now 
learned at once, for I could not wait for details, the sum of all that 
had happened in that dreadful interval. Melanius was no more, 
Alethe still alive, but in prison. 

" Take me to her," I had but time to say — '^ take me to her in- 
stantly and let me die by her side," when, nature again failing under 
such shocks, I relapsed into insensibility. In this state I continued 
for near an hour, and on recovering found the tribune by my side. 
The horrors, he said, of the forum were for that day over, but what 
the morrow might bring he shuddered to contemplate. His nature, 
it was plain, revolted from the inhuman duties in which he was en- 
gaged. Touched by the agonies he saw me suffer, he in some degree 
relieved them by promising that I should at nightfall be conveyed 
to the prison, and, if possible, through his influence gain access to 
Alethe. She might yet, he added, be saved, could I succeed in per- 
suading her to comply with the terms of the edict, and make sacri- 
fice to the gods. ^^ Otherwise," said he, '^ there is no hope; the 
vindictive Orcus, who has resisted even this short respite of mercy, 
will to-morrow inexorably demand his prey." 



Thomas Moore. 623 

He then related to me, at my own request, tliougli every word 
was torture, all the harrowmg details of the proceeding before the 
tribunal. '^I have seen courage/' said he, ^'in its noblest forms 
in the field ; but the calm intrepidity with which that aged her- 
mit endured torments — which it was hardly less torment to 
witness — surpassed all that I could have conceived of human 
fortitude." 

My poor Alethe, too ; in describing to me her conduct, the brave 
man wept like a child. Overwhelmed, he said, at first by her ap- 
prehensions for my safety, she had given way to a full burst of 
womanly weakness. But no sooner was she brought before the tri- 
bunal and the declaration of her faith was demanded of her than a 
spirit almost supernatural seemed to animate her whole form. 
'^ She raised her eyes," said he, '^^ calmly, but with fervor, to heaven, 
while a blush was the only sign of mortal feeling on her features, 
and the clear, sweet, and untrembling voice with which she pro- 
nounced her own doom in the words, '' I am a Christian ! ' " sent a 
thrill of admiration and pity throughout the multitude. Her 
youth, her loveliness affected all hearts, and a cry of ^ Save the 
young maiden ! ' was heard in all directions." 

The implacable Orcus, however, would uofc hear of mercy. Ee- 
senting, as it appeared, with all his deadliest rancor, not only her 
OAvn escape from his toils, but the aid with which she had, so 
fatally to his views, assisted mine, he demanded loudly and in the 
name of the insulted sanctuary of Isis, her instant deatli. It was but 
by the firm intervention of the governor, Avho shared the general 
sympathy in her fate, that the delay of another day was granted to 
give a chance to the young maiden of yet recalling her confession, 
and thus affording some pretext for saving her. 

Even in yielding, with evident reluctance, to this respite, the in- 
human priest would yet accompany it with some mark of his ven- 
geance. Whether for the pleasure (observed the tribune) of 
mingling mockery with his cruelty, or as a warning to her of the 
doom she must ultimately expect, he gave orders that there should 
be tied around her brow one of those chaplets of coral with which 
it is the custom of young Christian maidens to array themselves on 
the day of their martyrdom ; "^^and thus fearfully adorned," said he, 

^"^ The merit of the confession "Christianus sum," or "Christiana sum," was con- 
siderably enhanced by the clearness and distinctness with which it was pronounced. 
Eusebius mentions the martyr Vetius as making it Aaju-Trporari) (j>oivr]. 



624 The Prose and Poet ly of Ireland. 

''she was led away amidst tlie gaze of the pitying multitude to 
j)rison." 

^^ith these harrowino; details the short interval till niohtfall — 
every minute of which seemed an age — was occu2:)ied. As soon as it 
grew dark, I was ^Dlaced upon a litter — my wound, though not dan- 
gerous, requiring such a conveyance — and, under the guidance of ni}- 
friend, I was conducted to the prison. Through his interest with 
the guard we were without difficulty admitted, and I was borne 
into the chamber where the maiden lay immured. Even the veteran 
guardian of the place seemed touched with compassion for his 
prisoner, and, supposing her to be asleep, had the litter placed geutly 
near her. 

She was half reclining, with her face hid beneath her hands, upon 
a couch, at the foot of which stood an idol, over whose hideous 
features a lamp of naphtha that hung from the ceiling shed a wild 
and ghastly glare. On a table before the image stood a censer, with 
a small vessel of incense beside it, one grain of which thrown vol- 
untarily into the flame would, even now, save that precious life. So 
strange, so fearful was the whole scene that I almost doubted its 
reality. Alethe, my own, happy Alethe ! can it, T thought, be thou 
that I look upon ? 

She now slowly and with difl&culty raised her head from the couch, 
on observing which the kind tribune withdrew, and we were left 
alone. There was a jDaleness as of death over her features, and 
those eyes, which when last I saw them were but too bright, too 
happy for this w^orld, looked dim and sunken. In raising herself 
up, she put her hand, as if from pain, to her forehead, whose mar- 
ble hue but appeared more death-like from those red bands that lay 
so awfully across it. 

After Avanderiug for a minute* vaguely, her eyes at length rested 
upon me, and, with a shriek half terror, half joy, she sprung from 
the couch and sunk upon her knees by my side. Slie had believed 
me dead, and even now scarcely trusted her senses. '^ My husband ! 
my love ! " she exclaimed; '^ oh ! if thou comest to call me from this 
world, behold I am ready." In saying thus she pointed wildly to 
that ominous wreath, and then dropped her head down uj)on my 
knee as if an arrow had pierced it. 

" Alethe ! " I cried, terrified to the very soul by that mysterious 
pang, and, as if the sound of my voice had reanimated her, she 
looked up, with a faint smile, in my face. Her thoughts, which 



Thomas Moore. 625 

had evidently been wandering, became collected, and in her joy at 
my safety, her sorrow at my suffering, she forgot entirely the fate 
that impended over herself. Love, innocent love, alone occupied 
all her thoughts, and the warmth, the affection, the devotedness 
with which she spoke, oh ! how at any other moment I would have 
blessed, have lingered upon every word ! 

But the time flew fast, that dreadful morrow was approaching. 
Already I saw her writhing in the hands of the torturer; the flames, 
the racks, the wheels were before my eyes ! Half frantic with the 
fear that her resolution was fixed, I flung myself from the litter in 
an agony of weeping, and supplicated her, by the love she bore me, 
by the happiness that awaited us, by her own merciful God, who 
was too good to require such a sacrifice, by all that the most pas- 
sionate anxiety could dictate, I implored that she would avert from 
us the doom that was coming, and but for once comply with the 
vain ceremony demanded of her. 

Shrinking from me as I spoke, but with a look more of sorrow 
than reproach, "What, thou, too!" she said mournfully, "thou, 
into whose inmost spirit I had fondly honied the same light had 
entered as into my own ! ^o, never be thou leagued with them who 
would tempt me to ^ make shipwreck of my faith!' Thou, who 
couldst alone bind me to life, use not, I entreat thee, thy power, 
but let me die as he I serve hath commanded — die for the truth. Ee- 
member the holy lessons we heard together on those nights, those 
happy nights, when both the present and future smiled upon us, 
when even the gift of eternal life came more welcome to my soul 
from the glad conviction that thou wert to be a sharer in its bless- 
ings. Shall I forfeit now that divine privilege ? shall I deny the 
true God whom we then learned to IoA' e ? 

"No, my own betrothed," she continued, pointing to the two 
rings on her finger, "behold these pledges; they are both sacred. 
I should have been as true to thee as I am now to Heaven ; nor in 
that life to which I am hastening shall our love be forgotten. 
Should the baptism of fire through which I shall pass to-morrow 
make me worthy to be heard before the throne of grace, I will in- 
tercede for thy soul ; I will pray that it may yet share with mine 
that ^ inheritance immortal and undefiled ' which mercy offers, and 
that thou and my dear mother and I — " 

She here dropped her voice, the momentary animation with 
which devotion and affection had inspired her vanished, and there 



626 The Prose and Poetry of Irelaiid. 

came a darkness over all her features, a livid darkness like the ap- 
proach of death, that made me shudder through every limb. Seiz- 
ing my hand convulsively, and looking at me with a fearful eager- 
ness, as if anxious to hear some consoling assurance from my own 
lijDs, '^ Believe me," she continued, ^^not all the torments they are 
preiDaring for me, not even this deep, burning pain in my brow to 
which they will hardly find an equal, could be half so dreadful to 
me as the thought that I leave thee without — " 

Here her voice again failed, her head sunk upon my arm, and — 
merciful God, let me forget what I then felt ! — I saw that she was 
dj'ing ! Whether I uttered any cry I know not, but the tribune 
came rushing into the chamber, and, looking on the maiden, said, 
with a face full of horror, ^^ It is but too true ! " 

He then told me, in a low voice, what he had just learned from the 
guardian of the prison — that the band round the young Christian's 
"brow was — oh ! horrible — a com^^ound of the most deadly jooison, 
the hellish invention of Orcus, to satiate his vengeance, and make the 
fate of his poor victim secure. My first movement was to untie that 
fatal wreath, but it would not come away — it would not come away ! 

Koused by the j)ain, she again looked in my face, but, unable to 
speak, took hastily from her bosom the small silver cross which she 
had brought with her from my cave. Having pressed it to her own 
lips, she held it anxiously to mine, and seeing me kiss the holy sym- 
bol with fervor, looked happy and smiled. The agony of death 
seem to have j)assed away ; there came suddenly over her features a 
lieavenly light, some share of which I felt descending into my own 
soul, and in a few minutes more she expired in my arms. 



Here ends the manuscTipt^ hut on the outer cover is found, in the 
handicriting of a much later period, the following notice, extracted, 
as it appears, from so'tne Egyptian martyr ology : 

" Alciphron, an Epicurean philosojDher, converted to Christian- 
ity, A.D. 257, by a young Egyptian maiden, who suffered martyr- 
dom in that year. Immediately upon her death he betook himself 
to the desert and lived a life, it is said, of much holiness and peni- 
tence. During the persecution under Dioclesian his sufferings for 
the faith were most exemplary, and being at length, at an advanced 
age, condemned to hard labor for refusing to comply with an impe- 
rial edict, he died at the Brass Mines of Palestine a.d. 297. 



EUGENE a CURRY. 

** He belongs to the race of the giants in literary research and industry, a 
race now almost extinct. " — Matthew Arnold. 

EUGENE O'CUERY, one of the truest men a;nd greatest scho- 
lars ever produced by Ireland, was born at Dunhana, near 
Carrigaholt, county of Clare, in 1796. He owed little to schools ; 
he was a self-made, self-taught man, all his yast knowledge being 
obtained by his own iron efforts. 

While young he obtained a situation in Limerick, the duties of 
which required unceasing patience and attention. It was, perhaps, 
a good preparatory training for the future critic and antiquarian. 
As he grew in years, his loye of Irish literature increased. His 
knowledge of the Irish language was thorough, and as time passed 
on he carefully added to his gTowing stock of Irish manuscripts. 

O'Curry accidentally became acquainted with George Smith, the 
enterprising publisher of ^^ The Annals of the Four Masters," and 
this acquaintance led to his public career as an Irish scholar. He 
was inyited to Dublin, and from 1834 to 1841 he held a post in 
the antiquarian department of the Goyernment Ordnance Survey 
of Ireland. He was then employed by the Eoyal Irish Academy, 
and by Trinity College, Dublin, in transcribing and cataloguing 
their old Irish manuscripts. 

While thus engaged, he was one day ^'isited by the poet Moore, 
in connection with which is told an anecdote that points its own 
moral. 

"^•The first volume of Moore's ' History,'" ^ writes O'Curry, *'was 
published in the year 1835, and in the year 1839, during one of his 
yisits to the land of his birth, he, in company with his old and 
attached friend, Dr. Petrie, favored me with quite an unexpected 
yisit at the Eoyal Irish Academy, then in Grafton Street. I was 
at that period employed on the Ordnance Survey of Ireland, and 
at the time of his yisit hapi^ened to have before me on my desk 
the ^ Books of Ballymote ' and ' Lecain," the ^ Leabhar Breac,' ' The 
Annals of the Four Masters,' and many other ancient books for 

1 ms "History of Ireland." 
627 



628 The Prose and Poei-ry of Ireland, 

historical research and reference. I had never before seen Moore, 
and, after a brief introduction and explanation of the nature of my 
occupation by Dr. Petrie, and seeing the formidable array of so 
many dark and time-worn volumes by which I was surrounded, he 
looked a little disconcerted, but after a while plucked up courage to 
open the ^ Book of Ballymote ' and ask what it was. Dr. Petrie 
and myself then entered into a short explanation of the history and 
character of the books then present, as well as of ancient G-aedhlic 
documents in general. Moore listened with great attention, alter- 
nately scanning the books and myself, and then asked me, in a se- 
rious tone, if I understood them, and how I had learned to do so. 
Having satisfied him upon these points, he turned to Dr. Petrie 
and said : '■ Petrie, these huge tomes could not have been written 
by fools or for any foolish j^urpose. I never knew anything aboub 
them before, and I had no right to have undertaken the '' History 
of Ireland."'"^ 

Under the Brehon Law Commission, he and Dr. O'Donovan were 
engaged, in 1853, to transcribe and translate the ancient laws of 
Ireland from originals in Trinity College and the British Museum. 
These O'Curry had himself, in great part, discovered, and he was 
the first modern scholar able to decipher and explain them. 

In 1854, on the establishment of the Catholic University in Dub- 
lin, his eminent abilities were recognized, and he was appointed to 
fill the chair of Irish history and archaeology. With his whole 
soul Professor O'Curry applied himself to the un wrought field of 
his department, and the result was that his rich, patient, and mas- 
sive intellect gave to Ireland and to the world works that live ' ^ to 
perish never." In 1860 he published his celebrated ^^ Lectures 
on the Manuscript Materials of Ancient Irish History " — a deeply- 
interesting and profound volume, which takes its place among the 
greatest critical and historical works of modern times. 

When the summons of death came, the pious and learned Pro- 
fessor was still engaged in preparing for the press his ^^ Lectures on 
the Social Customs, Manners, and Life of the People of Ancient 
Erinn." His last appearance in pablic was in the procession of 
Sunday, July 27, 1862, at the laying of the first stone of the new 
building of the Catholic University. " On the following Tuesday 
night," writes one of his biographers, " having spent a hapjDy even- 
ing with his children, he retired to rest apparently in his usual 

2 " Lectures on the MS. Materials of Irish History," lect. vii. 



Etigene G Curry, 629 

health. A few hours later, his servant, hearing an unusual noise, 
hastened to his room, and found the Professor suffering from a 
pain in the heart, which he described as gradually extending up- 
wards. In twenty minutes O'Ourry was no more !" 

The ^^ Lectures on the Manuscript Materials of Irish History" is 
an octavo volume of 722 pages, embracing twenty-one lectures and a 
large appendix.^ Of this immortal book O'Curry says, in his own 
simple, modest way : '^ I may claim for it at -least the poor merit 
of being the first effort ever made to bring within the view of the 
student of Irish history and archaeology an honest, if not a com- 
plete, analysis of all the materials of that yet unwritten story, which 
lies accessible, indeed, in our native language, but the great body 
of which — the flesh and blood of all the true history of Ireland — 
remains to this day unexamined and unknown to the world. " * 

His last great work — published in 1873, under the editorship 
of Dr. W. K. O'Sullivan — is in three large volumes. Its title is/ 
'' Lectures on the Social Customs, Manners, and Life of the Ancient 
Irish." It embraces the detailed examination of : (1) the system 
of legislation and government in ancient Ireland ; (2) the system of 
ranks and classes in society ; (3) the religious system — if Druidism 
can be so styled — of the ancient Irish ; (4) the education of the 
people, with some account of their learning in ancient times ; (5) 
the military system, including the system of military education, 
a,nd some account of the Irish chivalry or Orders of Champions ; 

(6) the nature, use, and manufacture of arms used in ancient times ; 

(7) the buildings of ancient times, both public, military, and do- 
mestic, and the furniture of the latter ; (8) the materials and forms 
of dress ; (9) the ornaments used by all classes and their manufac- 
ture ; (10) the musical instruments of the ancient Irish, with some 
account of their cultivation of music ; (11) the agriculture and im- 
plements of ancient times ; (12) commerce of the ancient Irish ; 
and (13) their funeral rites and places of sepulture. This great 
work — the result of giant labor, profound learning, and prodigious 
research — is a complement to the *^ Lectures on the Manuscript Ma- 
terials of Ancient Irish History." 

In person Professor O'Curry was tall and well-i^roportioned. He 
possessed a powerful mind in a powerful body. The Hon. T. D. 

3 This valuable appendix, among other things, contains facsimile specimens of ancient 
Irish MSS., extending from a.d. 430 to 1861. 
* Preface to his " Lectures." 



630 The Prose aiid Poetry of Irela?id, 

McGee thus describes the renerable scholar at work : "In the re- 
cess of a distant window there was a half-bald head bent busily 
over a desk, the living master-key to all this voiceless learning. It 
Wtis impossible not to be strack at the first glance with the long, 
oval, well-spanned cranium as it gUstened in the streaming sun- 
light ; and when the absorbed scholar lifted up his face, massive, 
as became such a capital, but lighted with every kindly inspiration, 
it was quite impossible not to feel sympathetically drawn towards 
the man. There, as we often saw him in the flesh, we see him still 
in fancy. Behind that desk, equipped with inkstands, acids, and 
microscope, and covered with half-legible vellum folios, rose cheer- 
fully and buoyantly to instruct the ignorant, to correct the preju- 
diced, or to bear with the petulant visitor, the fii'st of living Celtic 
scholars and palaeographers, Eugene O'CuiTy." 

The character of this illustrious man may be summed up in a few 
words. His vast learning was only exceeded by his virtue and 
modest simphcity. A pious, faithful Catholic, and a true Irishman, 
he dedicated his splendid intellect to his God, to truth, and to his 
coimtry. He did more than all the scholars of modern times to 
elevate ancient Ireland to its real place in the world of literature. 
And if the just, as the Holy Book assures us, will be held in ever- 
lasting remembrance, then the virtuons, learned, patriotic, and 
great-souled Eugene O'CtuTy shall never be forgotten. As the chief 
of Irish critics and the prince of Irish scholars, he will evermore 
shine as a brilMant star in the literary firmament of the ^' Isle of 
Saints and Sages." 

" Blessings of all saints in glory 

We invoke for him who drew • 

Old Egyptian seeds of story 
From the grave, to bloom anew I " ' 



LECTURE ON THE CBIEF EXISTING AS'CIEXT IRISH BOOKS.^ 

TVe have now disposed of the chief national annals, and we have 
noticed the other historical works of the last and greatest of the An- 
nalists. But though in some respects undoubtedly the most im- 
portant, the compositions we have been considering form, after all, 

5 The late gifted Thomas DArcy McGee wrote two beautiful poems on O'Corry. The 
foregoing is a stanza from one of them. See '• Poems '" of T. D. McGee. pp. 155-460. 

* This is Lecture IX. of • Lectures on the MS. Materials of Ancient Irish History." 
It was delivered in the Catholic UniTersitv of Ireland. Dublin, on July 10. 1856. 



Eugene O' Curry. 631 

but a small i^ortion of tlie imniense mass of m.aterials wliicli exist 
in Irisli manuscripts for the elucidation of onr history. 

Fortunatelv, of these 2:reat books we have manv still remainiuor 
to ns iu perfect j^reservation. And there is not one of you to whom 
the originals themselves, notwithstanding the wear and tear of cen- 
ttiries, may not easily become iutelhgible, so beautifully was the 
scribe's work performed in early days in Ireland, whenever you shall 
be disposed to devote but half the time to the study of the noble 
old lauoTLiao^e of Erinn which vou devote to that of the s:reat classic 
tongues of other ancient people. A visit to the library of th3 Royal 
Irish Academy or of Trinity College will, howeyer, little serve to 
make you aware of the vast extent of the treasures which lie iu the 
dark- written, musty-looking old books you are shown there as curi- 
osities, unless you shall i^irovide yoiu'selves with the key which some 
acquaintance with their characters and language alone will afford. 
In the short account, therefore, which I am about to lay before you 
of the great yellum books and MSS. in Dublin, I shall add in every 
case some approximate calculation of their length by reference to 
the number of pages each book would fill if printed (the Irish text 
alone) in large quarto volumes, such as those of 'Donovan's " An- 
nals of the Four Masters.*' And when you have heard of what mat- 
ter the contents of these books consist, and reflect upon the length 
to which, if printed in full, they would extend, I think you will 
agree with me that all that I have sai 1 upon the value of our MS. 
treasures will, on better acquaintance with them, be found to fall 
far short of the reality. 

The fii'st of these books that merits notice, because it is the oldest, 
is that which is known by the name ** Leabhar na h-Uidre." or 
the *'*' Book of the Dun Cow." to which I have already briefly alluded 
in a former lecture. Of this book, so often referred to in Michael 
O'Clery's prefaces, we have now, unfortunately, bnt a fragment re- 
maining, a fragment which consists, however, of 13 S folio pages, 
and is written on very old vellum. 

The name and period of wi'iting the book of which it is a frag- 
ment might perhaj)5 be now lost for ever if the curious history of the 
book itself had not led to, and in some degi-ee, indeed, necessitated, 
their preservation. All that we know about it is found in two 
entries written at different periods in a blank part of the second 
column of the first page of folio 35. Of the first of these curious 
entries the followinsr is a literal translation : 



=-ii 



632 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

^' Pray for Maelrnuire, the son of Ceilechair — that is, the son of the 
son of Conn-na-m-Bocht — who wrote and collected this book from 
yarions books. Pray for Donnell, the son of Murtocli, son of Don- 
nelly son of Tadhglor Teig, son of Brian, son of Andreas, son 01 
Brian LuigUneacli, son of Turloch Mor (or the G-reat) O'Conor. 
It was this Donnell that directed the renewal of the name of the 
person who wrote this beantiful book, by Sigraidh (JCuirnin ; and 
it is not as well for us to leave our blessing w^th the owner of this 
book as to send it to him by the mouth of any other person. And it 
is a week from this day to Easter Saturday, and a week from 3'es- 
terday to the Friday of the Crucifixion, and (there will be) two 
Golden Pridays on that Friday — that is, the Friday of the Crucifix- 
ion — and this is greatly wondered at by some learned persons." 

The following is the translation of the second entry, same page 
and column : 

'^ A prayer here for Aedh Ruadh (Hugh the Eed-Haired), the son 
of Niall GarWi O'Donnell, who forcibly recovered this book from 
the people of Connacht, and the ' Leabiiar Gearr ' (or ' Short Book ') 
alonof with it after tliev had been hidden away from us from the 
time of Catlial 6g O'Conor to the time of Rory son of Brian 
(O'Conor), and ten lords ruled over Carbury (or Sligo) between 
them. And it was in the time of Conor, the son of Hugh O'Don- 
nell, that they were taken to the West, and this is the way in which 
they were so taken: the 'Short Book' in ransom for O'Doherty, 
and ' Leabhar na h-TJidhre ' — that is, the present book — in ransom 
of the son of O'Donnell's chief family historian, who was captured 
by Catlial and carried away as a pledge, and thus they (the books) 
were away from the Cenel Conaill (or O'Donnells) from this time of 
Conor (O'Donnell) to the (present) time of Hugh." 

There is some mistake in this last memorandum. Conor, the son 
of Hugh O'Donnell, in whose time the books are stated here to have 
been carried into Connaught, was slain by his brother Xiall in the 
year 1342, according to the '' Annals of the Four Masters," and the 
capture of John O'Doherty by Catlial 6g O'Conor, at the battle of 
Ballyshannon, took 2:)lace in the year 1359. The proper reading 
would therefore seem to be that '^ Leabhar na h-Uidhre " passed into 
Connacht first before Conor O'Donnell's death, in 1312, and that the 
'^ Leabhar Gearr," or ''Short Book," was given in ransom for 
O'Doherty in 1359, Conor O'Donnell's reign covering both periods, as 
the writer does not seem to recoofnize the reign of the fratricide, Xiall. 



EiLgenc GCicrry. 6^)2) 

The following passage fi'oni the *' Annals of tlie Four Masters'* 
Trill make this last entry more intelligible, and shoTr that it was 
made in Donegall. in the year 1470 : 

*•' A.D. 1470. The Castle of Slisro was taken after a Ions: siesfe bv 
O'Donnell — that is, Hngh the Eed-Haired — fi'om Donnell, the son 
of Eoghan O'Conor. On this occasion he obtained all that he de- 
manded by way of reparation, besides receiving tokens of submis- 
sion and tribute from Lower Connacht. It was on this occasion, 
too, that he recovered the book called '' Leabhar Gearr' (or the 
'Short Book'), and another, 'Leabhar na h-ITidhre,' as well as 
the chairs of O'Donnell 6g (O'Donnell), which had been carried 
thither in the time of John, the son of Conor, son of Hngh, son of 
Donnell 6g O'Donnell.'' 

In reference to the first entry, it must have been made wnile 
the book was in Connacht by Sigraidli O'Cuirnin, who was, 
according to the '• Annals of the Four Masters," a learned 
poet of Briefney, and died in the year 134T, and he must have 
made the entry in the year 13-45, as that was the only year at this 
2:>aiticular period in which Good Friday happened to fall on the 
Festival of the Annunciation, on the 25 th of Mai-ch. This fact is 
further borne out bv an entrv in the "Annals of the Four Masters," 
which records that Conor O'Donnell, chief of Tirconnell, died in the 
year 1342, after a reign of nine years, and we have seen from the 
entry that it was in his time that this book must have been carried 
into Connacht. According to the same * 'Annals,*' Donnell, the son 
of Murtach O'Conor, died in the year 143 T, by whose direction 
G^Cuirnin renewed the name of the orisfinal writer, which even at 
this early period seems to have disaj^peared, several leaves of this 
book, and amongst others that which contained this entry, having 
even then been lost. Of the original compiler and wi-iter of the 
*• Leabhar na h-Uidhre" I have been able to leam nothiuor more 
than the following brief and melancholy notice of his death in the 
"Annals of the Four* Masters" at the yeai' HOG : 

'' Afcf.elmiiiri, son of the son of Conn-na-m-Boclit, was killed in 
the middle of the great stone church of Cluainmacnois by a party 
of robbers." 

A memorandum in the original hand at the top of folio 45 
clearly identifies the writer of the book with the person whose 
death is recorded in the passage just quoted from the '' Annals *' ; 
it is partly in Latin and partly in Gaedldic, as follows : 



634 T^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

'• This is II trial of his pen here by Maelmuiri, son of the son of 
Conn."' 

This Conn-na-m-Boclit, or ^^ Conn of the Poor/' as he was called, 
from his devotion to their relief and care, was a lay religious of 
Clonmacnois, and the father and founder of a distinguished family 
of scholars, lay and ecclesiastical. He appears to have been the 
founder and superior of a community of poor lay monks of the 
CeiU-De (or Culdee) order in connection with that great establish- 
ment, and he died in the year 1059. 

The contents of the MS. as they stand now are of a mixed charac- 
ter, historical and romantic, and relate to the ante-Christian as well 
as the Christian ^^eriod. The book begins with a fragment of the 
Book of Genesis, part of which was always prefixed to the ^^Book of 
Invasions (or Ancient Colonizations) of Erinn " for genealogical pur- 
poses (and there is good reason to believe that a full tract on t]iis 
subject was contained in the book so late as the year 1631, as Fa- 
ther Michael O'Clery quotes it in his new compilation of the '^ Book 
of Invasions," made in that year for Brian Maguire). 

This is followed by a fragment of the " History of the Britons," by 
K'ennius, translated into Gaedhlic by Gilla Caomhain, the poet and 
chronologist, who died a.d. 1072. This tract was published by the 
Irish Archaeological Society in 1848. 

The next important piece is the very ancient elegy wi'itten b}^ the 
poet Dalian Fargaill on the death of St. Colum Cille in the year 
592. It is remarkable that even at the early period of the compila- 
tion of the ^' Leabhar na h-Uidhre," this celebrated poem should 
have required a gloss to make it intelligible. The gloss, which is, as 
usual, interlined, is not very copious, but it is most important both 
in a philological and historical point of view, because of the many 
more ancient compositions quoted in it for the explanation of words, 
which compositions, therefore, must then have been still in ex- 
istence. 

The elegy is followed by fragments of the ancient historic tale of 
the "^^ Mesca Uladh" or ^''Inebriety of the Ultonians," who, in a 
fit of excitement after a great feast at the royal palace of Emania, 
made a sudden and furious march into Munster, where they burned 
the palace of Teamliair Luachra in Kerry, then the residence of 
Curoi Mac Daire, King of West Munster. This tract abounds in 
curious notices of topography as well as in illustrations to, and de- 
criptions of, social habits and manners. 



Eugene O'Ctcrry. ' 635 

Next come fragments of ''Tain Bo Dartadha" and the *'Tain 
Bo Flidais," both cattle spoils arising out of the celebrated Cattle 
Spoil of Cuailgue. Next comes the story of the wanderings of 
Maelduin's ship in the Atlantic for three years and seven months in 
the eighth century. These are followed by imperfect copies of the 
"Tain Bo Chuailque," or "Great Cattle Spoil of Chuailque," 
the " Bruighean Da Dearga," and death of the monarch Conairet 
Mor, a history of the great pagan cemeteries of Erinn and of the i 
various old books from which this and other pieces were compiled, 
poems by Flann of Monasterbaice and others, together witli various 
other pieces of history and historic romance, chiefly referring to 
the ante-Christian period, and especially that of the " Tuatha De 
Danann." This most valuable MS. belongs to the Eoyal Irish 
Academy. If printed at length, the text of it would make about 
five hundred pages of the "Annals of the Four Masters." The next 
ancient book which I shall treat of is that at present known under 
the name of the "Book of Leinster." It can be shown from 
various internal evidences that this volume was either compiled or 
transcribed in the first half of the twelfth century by Finn Mac- 
Gorman, Bishop of Kildare, who died in the year 1160, and that it 
was compiled by order of Aodh Mac Crimhthainn, the tutor of the 
notorious Dermod Mac Murroch, that King of Leinster who first 
invited Earl Strongbow and the Anglo-Normans into Ireland in the 
year 1169. The book was evidently compiled for Dermod under 
the superintendence of his tutor, MacGorman, who had probably 
been a fellow-pupil of the king. In support of this assertion I 
need only transcribe the folloAving entry, which occurs in the origi- 
nal hand at the end of the folio 202, page h, of the book : 

" Benediction and health from Finn, the Bishop of Kildare, to 
Aedh (Hugh) Mac Crimhthainn, the tutor of the chief King of 
J^eth Mogha Nuadat (or of Leinster or Munster), successor of Oolum, 
the son of Crimhthainn, and chief historian of Leinster in wisdom, 
intelligence, and the cultivation of books, knoAvledge, and learn- 
ing. And I write the conclusion of this little tale for thee, acute 
Aedh (Hugh), thou possessor of the sjoarkling intellect. May it be 
long before we are without thee. It is my desire that thou shouldst 
be always with us. Let Mac Louan's book of poems be given to 
me, that I may understand the sense of the ^loems that are in it, 
and farewell in Christ," etc. 

This note must be received as sufficient evidence to bring the date 



636 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

I 

of this valuable manuscript within tlie period of a man's life whose 
death as a Catholic bishop haj)pened in the year 1160, and who was, 
I believe, consecrated to the ancient see of Kildare in the year 
1148, long before which period, of course, he must have been em- 
ployed to writo out this book. Of the Aedh Mac Crimhthainn for 
whom he wrote it, I have not been able to ascertain anything more 
than what appears above, but he must have flourished early in the 
t^velfth century to be the tutor of Dermod Mac Murroch, who, in 
concert with O'Brien, had led the men of Leinster against the 
Danes of Waterford so far back as the year 1137. 

That this book belonged either to Dermod Mac Murrocli himself 
or to some person who had him warmly at heart will appear plainly 
from the following memorandum, which is written in a strange but 
ancient hand in the top margin of folio 200, page a : 

'^0 Virgin Mary I it is a great deed that has been done in Erinn 
this day, the kalends of August — A'iz., Dermod, the son of Donnocli 
Mac Murrocli, King of Leinster and of the Danes of Dublin, to have 
been banished over the sea eastwards by the men of Erinn. Dch, 
uch, Lord ! what shall I do ?" 

The book consists at present of over four hundred pages of large 
folio vellum, but there are many leaves of the old pagination 
.missing. 

To give anything like a satisfactory analysis of this book would 
take at least one whole lecture. I cannot, therefore, within my 
present limited space, do more than glance at its general character, 
and point by name only to a few of the many important pieces pre- 
served in it. 

It begins, as usual, with a Book of Invasions of Erinn, but without 
the book of Genesis, after which the succession of the monarcbs to 
the year 1169, and the succession and obituary of the provincial 
and other minor kings, etc. Then follow sj)ecimens of ancient 
versification, poems on Tara, and an ancient plan and explanation 
of the Teach Midliecliuarta or Banqueting Hall of that ancient royal 
city. These poems and plan have been published by Dr. Petrie in 
his paper on the history of Tara, printed in the ^^ Transactions of 
the Eoyal Irish Academy for 1839," vol. xviii. After these came 
poems on the wars of the Leinstermen, the IJlstermen, and the 
Munstermen in great numbers, many of them of the highest histo- 
ric interest and value, and some prose pieces and small poems of 
Leinster of great antiquity, some of them, as I believe, certainly 



EtLgcnc O' Curry. 637 

Tvritten by Duhhthach, the great antiquarian and poet, who was 
St. Patrick's first convert at Tara. After these a fine copy of 
the history of the celebrated battle of Ross na Righ on the Boyne, 
fought between the men of Leinster and Ulster at the beginning of 
the Christian era; a copy of the '' ^lesca TJladhor," ^^ Inebriety of 
the Ultonians/' imperfect at the end, but which can be made per- 
fect by the fragment of it already mentioned in "Leabhar na h- 
Ilidhre"; a fine copy of the origin of the Boromean Tribute and 
the battles that ensued down to its remission ; a fragment of the 
battle of Cennahrat in Munster, with the defeat of Mac Con 
Ollioll Oluim; Mac Con's flight into Scotland, his return afterwards 
with a large force of Scottish and British adventurers, his landing in 
the Bay of Galway, and the ensuing battle of Magh Mucruimhe, 
fought between him and his maternal uncle, Art, the Monarch of 
Erinn, in which battle the latter was defeated and killed, as well as 
the seven sons of Oilioll Oluim. A variety of curious and important 
short tracts relating to Munster are also to be found in the book of 
Leinster, besides this last one, up to the middle of the eighth cen- 
tury. This volume likewise contains a small fragment of " Cormac's 
Glossary," copied perhaps with many more of these pieces from the 
veritable *' Soltair of Cashel*' itself ; also a fragment — unfortunately 
a very small one, (the first folio only) — of the wars of the Danes 
and the Gaedhils {i.e., the Irish); a copy of the ^^ Dinnsenchus," a 
celebrated ancient topographical tract which was compiled at Tara 
about the year 550 ; several ancient poems on universal geography 
of the great Milesian tribes and families, particularly those of Lein- 
ster ; and, lastly, an ample list of the early saints of Erinn, with 
their pedigrees and affinities, and with copious references to the 
situations of their churches. 

This is but an imperfect sketch of this invaluable MS., and I 
think I may say with sorrow that there is not in all Europe any na- 
tion but this of. ours that would not long since have made a national 
literary fortune out of such a volume, had any other country in Europe 
been fortunate enough to possess such an heirloom of history. 

This volume forms at present part of the rich store of ancient 
Irish literature preserved in the library of Trinity College, Dublin, 
and if printed at length, the Gaecllilic text of it would make two 
thousand pages of the '^Annals of the Four Masters." 

The next book in order of antiquit}' of which I shall treat is the 
well-known '^Book of Ballvmote." 



638 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

This noble Yolume, tliougli defective in a few places, still consists 
of two Imndred and fifty-one leaves, or five hundred and two pages, 
of the largest folio vellum, equal to about two thousand five hun- 
dred pages of the ^^I'i^ited ^ ^Annals of the Four Masters." It was 
written by different persons, but chiefly by Soloman O'Droma and 
Manus O'Duigenana, and we find it stated at folio 626 that it was 
written at Baliymote (in the county of Sligo), in the house of 
Tomaltacli 6g Mac Donogh, lord of Corann, in that country, at the 
time Torlogli 6g, the son of Hugh 0' Conor, was King of Connacht, 
and Charles O'Conor of Belanagar has written in it the date 1391 
as the precise year in which this ]oart of the book was written. This 
book, like all our old books still existing, is but a compilation col- 
lected from various sources, and must, like them, be held to repre- 
sent to a great extent several older compilations. 

It begins with an imperfect copy of the ancient '' Leabhar Gabhala," 
or '^ Book of Invasions of Erinn," differing in a few details from other 
copies of the same tract. This is followed by a series of ancient 
chronological, historical, and genealogical 23ieces in prose and verse. 
Then follow the pedigrees of Irish saints, the history and pedi- 
grees of all the great families of the Milesian race, with the various 
minor tribes and families which have branched off from them in the 
succession of ages, so that there scarcely exists an 0' or a Mac at 
the present day who may not find in this book the name of the par- 
ticular remote ancestor whose name he bears as a surname, as well 
as the time at which he lived, what he was, and from what more 
ancient line he again was descended. These genealogies may ajv 
pear unimportant to ordinary readers, but those who have assayed 
to illustrate any branch of the ancient history of this country, and 
who could haA^e availed themselves of them, have found in them the 
most authentic, accurate, and important auxiliaries ; in fact, a his- 
tory which has remained as long unwritten as that of ancient 
Erinn could never he satisfactorily compiled at all without them. 
Of these genealogies I shall have more to say in a subsequent 
lecture. 

These family histories in the '^ Book of Baliymote," by some ac- 
counts of Conor Mac Nessa, King of Ulster; ot' Ait Jiirne the Sa- 
tirist; the tragical death of the beautiful Ih^y Luaidet ; the story 
of the adventures of the monarch Cormac Mac Art in fairy-land ; 
some curious and valuable sketches of the death of the monarch 
Crhnhthenn Mor ; a tract on the accession of Niall of the Kine 



Ett^gene O' Curry, 639 

Hostages to the monarcliy, his wars and the death of his brother 
Flachra at Forraidh (in the present connty of Westmeath), on 
his return mortally wounded from the battle of Caenraighe (Kenry, 
in the ^^resent county of Limerick). 

Some of these pieces are doubtless mixed up in mythological 
fable, but as the main facts as well as all the actors are real, and as 
to these mythological fables may be traced up many of the charac- 
teristic popular customs and superstitions still remaining among 
us, these pieces must be looked upon as materials of no ordinary 
value by the historical and antiquarian investigator. After these fol- 
low tracts in prose and verse, on the names, parentage, and hus- 
bands of the most remarkable worSien in Irish history, down to the 
twelfth century ; a tract on the mothers of the Irish saints ; a tract 
on the orio-in of the names and surnames of the most remarkable 
men in ancient Irish history ; and an ancient law tract on the rights, 
privileges, rewards, and so forth, of the learned classes, such as the 
ecclesiastical orders, the orders of poets, teachers, judges, etc. 
After this we have the ancient translation into the Gaeclhlic of the 
" History of the Britons," by Nennius, before alluded to as having 
been published a few years ago by the Irish Archaeological So- 
ciety ; an ancient grammar and prosody, richly illustrated with 
specimens of an ancient Irish versification ; a tract on the Agham 
alphabets of the ancient Irish, with illustrations (about to be pub- 
lished shortly by the Archaeological Society, edited by my respected 
friend, the Eev. Dr. Graves, F.T.C.D.) ; the book of reciprocal 
rights and tributes of the monarch and j)rovincial kings, and some 
minor chiefs of ancient Ireland (a most imj^ortant document, j)ub- 
lished for the first time in 18-IT by the Celtic Society) ; a tract on 
the ancient history, chiefs, and chieftains of Corca JLaoi, or O'Dris- 
coll's country, in the county of Cork (published also by the Celtic 
Society in their ^'Miscellany'' for 1849) ; a copy of the ^'Dinnsen- 
chus," or great topographical tract ; and a translation or account of 
ancient Gaedhlic, with a critical collation of various texts of the 
Argonautic expedition and the Trojan war. 

The book ends with the adventures of ^Eneas after the destruc- 
tion of Troy. 

The Gaedhlic text of this great book, which belongs to the Li- 
brary of the Eoyal Irish Academy, would make about 2,500 pages 
of the "Annals of the Four Masters." 

As I have in a former lecture given a free analysis of the MS. 



640 The Prose mid Poetry of Ireland. 

commonly called the ^^ Leabhar Breac " (or ^^ Speckled Book"), an 
ancient vellum MS. preserved in the same library, I have only to 
add here that the G-aedhlic text of that most important volume 
would make above 2,000 pages of the " Annals of the Four Mas- 
ters." 

The next great book which merits our attention is that which has 
been lately discovered to be in great part the ^^ Leabhar Buidhe 
Lecain " (or the ^* Yellow Book of Lecain "), one of the ponderous 
compilations of the truly learned and industrious family of the Mac 
Firbises of that ancient seat of learning. It is preserved in the 
library of Trinity College, Dublin, where it is classed H, 2, 16. 

This volume, notwithstanding many losses, consists of about 500 
pages of large quarto vellum, equal to about 2,000 23ages of Gaedh- 
lic text printed like O'Donovan's ' ^ Annals of the Four Masters " ; 
and, with the exception of a few small tracts in other and some- 
what later hands, it is all finely written by Donnoch and Gilla Isa 
Mac Firbis, in- the year 1390. 

The '' Yellow Book of Lecain," i^i its original form, would ap- 
pear to have been a collection of ancient historical pieces, civil and 
ecclesiastical, in prose and verse. In its present condition it begins 
with a collection of family and political poems, relating chiefly to 
the families of O'Kelly and O'Connor of Connacht, and the O'Don- 
nells of Donegall. This tract made no part of the original book. 
These pieces are followed by some monastic rules in verse, and some 
jioems on ancient Tara, with another fine cojoy of the plan and ex- 
planation of its Teach Mldhchuarta, or Banqueting Hall, the same 
which has been published by Dr. Petrie in his "Essay on the His- 
tory and Antiquities of Tara." After this an account of the crea- 
tion, with the formation and fall of man, translated evidently from 
the book of Genesis. This biblical piece is followed by the "Feast of 
Dun na n-Gedh" and the "Battle of Magh Bath" (two important 
tracts published from this copy by the Irish Archagological Society) ; 
then a most curious and valuable account, though a little tinged 
with fable, of the reign and death of Meulrchertach Mac Erca, Mo- 
narch of Ireland, at the palace of Cleitech, on the banks of the Eiver 
Boyne, in the year of our Lord 527 ; an imperfect copy of the " Tain 
Bo Chuailgnc," or " Great Cattle Spoil of Cuailgne," in Louth, with 
several of the minor cattle spoils that grcAV out of it ; after which 
is a fine copy of the Bruighean Da Dearga, and death of the 
monarch Gonaire Mor ; the tale of the wanderings of Meal- 



Etc gene O' Curiy. 641 

duin^s ship (for more tliiin three years) in the Atlantic ; some most 
interesting tracts concerning the banishment of an ancient tribe 
from East Meath, and an account of the wanderings of some Irish 
ecclesiastics in the Northern Ocean, where they found the exiles ; 
an abstract of the battle of Dunbolg, in Wicklow, where the mo- 
narch Aedh Mac Ainmire was slain, in the year 594; the battle of 
Magh Bath (in the present county of Down) in which Congal 
Claen, prince of Ulidia, was slain, in the year 634 (published by 
the Irish Archaeological Society) ; and the battle of Ahnhaini (now 
Allen, in the j)resent county of Kildare), where the monarch Fer- 
ghal was killed, in the year 718. A variety of curious pieces follow 
relating to Conor Mac Nessa • Curoi Mac Daire (pronounced 
nearly ^'Cooree Mac Darry ") ; Lablivaidh LoingseacJi {''• Lovra 
Liiigsha ''''), King of Leinster; l^iall of the Kine Hostages, and his 
poet Torna^ together with many other valuable tracts and scraps 
which I can do no more than allude to at present ; and the volume 
ends with a fine copy (imperfect at the beginning) of the law tract 
I have already mentioned when speaking of the ^' Book of Bally- 
mote." This volume would make about 2,000 pages of the ^^ Annals 
of the Four Masters." 

The next of the great books to which I would desire your atten- 
tion is the volume so well known as the ' ' Book of Lecain. " This 
book was compiled in the year 141 G by Gilla Isa Mor Mac Flrbis, of 
Lecain Mlc F/iirhisigJi, in the county of Sligo, one of the great 
school of teachers of that celebrated locality, and the direct ances- 
tor of the learned DuhJialtach (or Duald) Mac Firbis already men- 
tioned. This book, which belongs to the Library of the Eoyal Irish 
Academy, contains over 600 pages, equal to 2,400 joages of the 
Gaedhlic text of the '"' Annals of the Four Masters." It is beauti- 
fully and accurately written on vellum of small folio size, chiefly 
in the hand of Gilla Isa Mac Firhis, though there are some small 
parts of it written, respectively, in the hands of Adam C Cuirnin 
(the historian of Breifne, or Briefney) and Morogh Fiahhac 
O Cuindhs. 

The first nine folios of the "Book of Lecain " were lost until dis- 
covered by me, a few years ago, bound up in a volume of the Sea- 
bright Collection, in the library of Trinity College. 

The " Book of Lecain" differs but little in the arrangements and 
general contents from the " Book of Ballymote." It contains two 
copies of the "Book of Invasions," an imperfect one at the begin- 



642 The Pi'ose and Poetiy of Ireland. 

ning, but a perfect one, with the succession of the kings, and the 
tract on the Boromean Tribute, at the end. It contains fine copies 
of the ancient historical, synchronological, chronological, and genea- 
logical poems already spoken of as comprised in the ^^Book of Bally- 
mote," as well as some that are not contained in that volume. These 
are followed by the family history and genealogies and of the Mile- 
sians, with considerable and important additions to those found in the 
" Book of Ballymote." Among the additions is a very valuable tract, 
in prose and verse, by Mac Firbis himself, on the families and subdi- 
visions of the territory of Tir FiacTiracTi, in the present county of 
Sligo, a tract which has been published by the Irish Archaeologi- 
cal Society under the title of "The Tribes and Customs of Hy- 
Fiachracli.^^ 

The other ancient vellum books of importance preserved in the 
library of Trinity College, Dublin, may be described as follows : 

A folio volume of ancient laws, of 120 pages, on vellum, wadtten 
about the year 1400 (classed E, 3, 5). This forms part of the col- 
lection shortly to be j^ublished by the Brehon Law Commission, and 
would make about 400 pages of the "Annals of the Four Masters." 

A small folio volume of 430 pages, on vellum (classed H, 2, 7), con- 
sisting chiefly of Irish pedigrees, together with some historical j^oems 
on the O'Kellys and O'Maddens, and some fragments of ancient his- 
toric tracts of great value, the titles of which, however, are missing. 
It contains also some translations from ancient Anglo-Saxon writers 
of romance, and a fragment of an ancient translation of Giraldus 
Cambrensis' "'History of the Conquest of Erinn." The hand- 
writing ajDpears to be of the sixteenth century, and the contents 
of the volume would make about 900 images of the "Annals of the 
Four Masters." 

A large folio volume of 238 pages (classed H, 2, 15), part on vellum 
and part on paper, consisting of a fragment of Brehon Laws on 
vellum, transcribed about the year 1300 ; two copies of " Cormac's 
Glossary," on paper (one of them by Duald Mac Firbis) ; another 
ancient "'Derivative Glossary" in the same hand; and some frag- 
ments of the early history of Erinn, on vellum. This volume would 
make about 500 pages of the "Annals of the Four Masters." 

A large folio volume of 400 pages (classed H, 2, 17), part on 
paper and part on vellum, consisting chiefly of fragments of vari- 
ous old books or tracts, and among others a fragment of a curious 
ancient medical treatise. This volume likewise contains a fragment 



EiLgene G Curry. . 643 

of the ** Tain B6 Cbuailgue/' and among merely literary tales it in- 
cludes that of the ^^ Reign of Saturn," an imperfect Eastern story, 
as well as an account of the Argonautic expedition (imperfect) and 
of the destruction of Troy (also imperfect). With this volume are 
bound up nine leaves belonging to the '' Book of Lecain," contain- 
ing amongst other things the '^Dialogue of the Two Sages/" the 
^' Royal Precepts of King Cormac Mac Ai't/' a fragment of the 
'^ Danish Wars/' short biographical sketches of some of the Irish 
saints, and many other interesting historic pieces. The Gaedhlic 
text of this volume would make altogether about 1,400 pages of the 
'' Annals of the Four Masters." 

A large vellum quarto (classed H, 3, 3) containing a fine but much 
decayed copy of the '*^ Dinnseanchus." It would make about 100 
pages. 

A small quarto volume of 870 pages, on vellum, written in the 
sixteenth century (classed H, 3, 17). The contents up to the 617th 
page consist of ancient laws, and from that to the end the contents 
are of the most miscellaneous character. They consist chiefly of 
short pieces such as '^ Brierin's Feast," an ancient tale of the Ulto- 
nians (imperfect), an account of the expulsion of the Deise (Decies 
or Deasys) from Bregia, a list of the wonders of Erinn, the tract on 
the ancient pagan cemeteries of Erinn, the account of the division 
of Erinn among the Aitlieacli Tuatha (called by English writers the 
Attacots), the discovery of Cashel and story of the two Druids, to- 
gether with the genealogies of the O'Briens and the succession of 
the monarchs of Ireland of the line of Eber. In the same volume 
Avill be found, too, the curious account of the revelation of the 
Crucifixion to Conor Mac Xess, a King of Ulster, by his Druid, 
on the day upon which it occurred, and of the death of Conor in 
consequence ; the story of the elopement of Ere, daughter of the 
King of Albain (or Scotland), with the Irish prince, Muiredhach, 
grandson of Xiall of the ^ine Hostages ; a tract on omens from 
the croaking of ravens, etc. ; the translation of the *^ History of the 
Britons," by Xunnius ; the story of the courtship of Finn Mac Cum- 
haill (pronounced ^^ Finn MacCoole") and Ailehe (jDronounced 
Alveh), the daughter of King Cormac Mac Art, together with many 
other short but valuable pieces. This volume would make 1,700 
pages of Gaedhlic text like those of the '^Annals of the Four 
Masters. " 

A small quarto volume of GG5 pages of vellum and 194 pages 



644 '^^^ Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland. 

paper, written in the sixteenth century (classed H, 3, 18). The 
first 500 pages contain various tracts and fragments of ancient laws. 
The remainder to the end consists of seyeral independent glossaries 
and glosses of ancient poems and prose tracts, together with the 
ancient historical tales of Bridghean Da Cliogxdh (pronounced 
" Breean da Cugga ") ; a story of Cathal Mac Finghuine, King of 
Munster in the middle of the eighth century ; stories of Ronan Mac 
Aedha (pronounced '' MacEa or MacHugh "), King of Leinster, and 
the story of the poetess Liadian of Kerry. This volume contains 
also the account of the revolution of the Aitheach Tuatha (or Atta- 
cots), and the murder by them of the kings and nobles of Erinn, 
Tundal's vision, poems on the O'Neills and on the MacDonnells of 
Antrim, John O'Mulchouroy's celebrated poem on Brian-na Mur- 
tha O'Eourke, together with a great number of short articles on a 
variety of historic subjects bearing on all parts of Erinn, and some 
pedigrees of the chief families of Ulster, Connacht, and Leinster. 
This volume would make about 1,800 pages of the '■'■ Annals of the 
Pour Masters.*' 

A small quarto volume of 230 pages (classed H, 4, 22), seventy of 
which contain fragments of ancient laws. The remainder of the 
book contains a great variety of tracts and poenis, and among others 
a large and important tract on the first settlement of the Milesians 
in Erinn, a fragment of the tale called ^^ Brierinn's Feast," several 
ancient poems on the families of the O'Neills, the O'Donnells, the 
Mac Eevalds, etc. , together with various small poems and prose of 
some value. This volume appears to be made up of fragments of 
two books. The writing of the first seventy pages seems to be of 
the sixteenth century, but the remaining part appears to be at least 
a century older. The entire volume has suffered much from neglect 
and from exposure to smoke and damp. The Gaedhlic text of it 
would make about 500 pages of the '^ Annals of the Four Masters." 

To these books I may add (as being preserved in the same library) 
the '^ Annals of Ulster " and those of Locli Ce, already spoken of 
both, by vellum, and the text of which would make about 900 pages 
of the "Annals of the Four Masters." 

Besides the vellum MSS. of law and history, the Trinity College 
library contains a large collection of ]3aper MSS. of great value, 
being transcripts of ancient vellum books made chiefly in the first 
half of the last century. To enumerate, and even partially to analyze, 
these paper MSS. would carry me far beyond the limits to which 



Etigene C Curry, 645 

the present lecture must necessarily be confined, but among the 
most important of them I may mention a volume written about the 
year 1690 by Owen O'Donnelly (an excellent Gaedhlic scholar), 
some large Yolumes by the O'^N^eachtans (John and Tadhg or Tiege) 
between the years 1716 and 1740, a copy of the '' Wars of Tho- 
mond " made by Andrew MacCurtin in 1716, and several large 
volumes transcribed by Hugh O'Daly, for Doctor Francis O'Sulli- 
van of Trinity College, in and about the year 1750, the originals of 
which are not now known. 

In this catalogue of books I have not particularized, nor in some 
instances at all included, the large body of ecclesiastical writings 
preserved in the Trinity College library, consisting of ancient lives 
of Irish saints, and other religious pieces in prose and verse. Neither 
have I included in my analysis of the collection the fac-simile copies 
made by myself for the library of the ^' Book of Lecain " (on vel- 
lum), of the so-called ^^Leabhar Breac " (on paper), of the '^Danish 
Wars," o[ Mac Firbis's Glossaries, and of a volume of ancient Irish 
deeds (on paper). 

The library of the Eoyal Irish Academy, besides its fine treas- 
ures of ancient vellum MSS., contains also a very large number of 
important paper MSS. ; but as they amount to some hundreds, it 
would be totally out of my power and beyond the scope of this lec- 
ture to enumerate them, or to give the most meagre analysis of their 
varied contents. 

There are, however, a few among them to which I feel called upon 
particularly to allude, although in terms more brief than with more 
time and space I should have been disposed to devote to them. 

The first of these volumes that I wish to bring under your notice is 
a fragment of the book well known as the ^^ Book of Lismore." This 
is a MS. on paper of the largest folio size and best quality. It is 
a fac-simile copy made by me from the original in the year 1839 for 
the Royal Irish Academy. This transcript is an exact copy, page 
for page, line for line, word for word, and contraction for contrac- 
tion, and was carefully and attentively read over and collated with 
the original by Dr. John O'Donovan and myself. And, indeed, I 
think I may safely say that I have recovered as much of the text of 
the original as it was possible to bring out without the application 
of acids or other chemical preparations, which I was not at liberty to 
use. 

Of the history of the original MS., which is finely written on 



646 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

vellnm of the largest size, we know nothing j^i'evious to the year 
1^14. In that year the late Duke of Devonshire commenced the 
work of repairing the ancient castle of Lismore, in the coiinty of 
Waterford, his property, and in the j)rogress of the work, the work- 
men haying occasion to reopen a doorway that had heen closed up 
with masonry, in the interior of the castle, they found a wooden box 
enclosed in the centre of it, which, on heins" taken out. was fotmd to 
contain this MS., as well as a su]>erb old crosier. The MS. had 
suffered much from damp, and the back, front, and top margin 
had been gnawed in several places by rats or mice ; but worse than 
that, it was said that the workmen by whom the precious box was 
found carried off several loose leaves, and even whole staves, of the 
book. Whether this be the case or not, it is, I regret to say, true 
that the greater number of the tracts contained in it are defective, 
and, as I believe, that whole tracts have disappeared from it altogether 
since the time of its discovery. The book was preseiTcd for some 
time with great care by the late Colonel Curry, the Dnke of Devon- 
shire's agent, who, however, in ISlo lent it to Denis O'Flinn, a jiro- 
f essed but a very indifferent Irish scholar, living then in Mallow Lane 
in the city of Cork. 

O'Flinn bound it in wooden boards, and disfigured several parts ot 
it by writing on the ^[S. "While in O'Flinn's hands it was copied 
in whole or in part by Michael OXongau, of Carrignavar, near Cork. 
It was O'Fhnn who srave it the name of the ^'Book of Lismore," 
merely because it was found at that place. After having made such 
use of the book as he thought proper, O'Flinn returned it, bound as 
I have already stated, to Colonel Curry some time between the years 
1S16 and 1S20, and so the venerable old relic remiiined unquestioned, 
and I believe unopened, tintil it was boiTowed by the Eoyal Irish 
Academy, to be copied for them by me, in the year 1839. 

The facilities for close examination which the slow progress of a 
fac-simile ti'anscript afforded me enabled me to clearly discover this 
at least : that not only was the absti-action of portions of the old 
book of recent date, but that the dishonest act had been dehberat^ly 
perpetrated by a skilful hand and for a double jmi-jDOse. For it was 
not only that whole staves had been pilfered, but partictdar subjects 
were mutilated, so as to leave the part that was returned to Lismore 
almost valueless without the abstracted parts, the offending parties 
having first, of course, copied all or the most part of the mutihited 
pieces. 



Eugene G Curry, 6/\y 

After my transcrii)t had. been finished and the old fragments of 
the original returned to Lismore by the Academy, I instituted on 
my own account a close enquiry in Cork, with the yiew of discover- 
ing, if possible, whether any part of the '' Book of Lismore " still 
remained there. Some seven or eight years passed over, however, 
without my gaining any information on the subject, when I hap- 
pened to meet by accident in Dublin a literary gentleman from the 
town of Middleton, ten miles from the city of Cork ; and as I never 
missed an opportunity of prosecuting my enquiries, I lost no time 
in communicating to him my suspicions, and the circumstances on 
which they were grounded, that part of the ^' Book of Lismore " 
must be still remaining in Cork. To my joy and surprise, the gen- 
tleman told me that he had certain knowledge of the fact of a large 
portion of the original MS. being in the hands of another party, but 
that he did not knew the owner, nor how or when he became pos- 
sessed of it. In a short time after this the late Sir William Betham's 
collection of MSS. passed by purchase into the library of the Royal 
Irish Academy ; and as I knew that the greater part of this collec- 
tion had been obtained from Cork, I lost no time in examining 
them closely for any copies of pieces from the '^ Book of Lismore." 
Nor was I disappointed, for I found among the books copies of the 
lives of St. Brendan, St. Ciaran of Clonmacnois, St. Mochna 
of Balla, in Mayo, and St. Finnchn of Brigobhann, in the county 
of Cork, besides several legends and minor pieces, all copied by 
Michael O'Longan from the ^^Book of Lismore "in the house of 
Denis Ban OTlinn, in Cork, in the year 1816. And not only does 
O'Longan state at the end of one of these lives that he coj^ied these 
from the book which Denis O'Flinn had borrowed from Lismore, 
but he gives the weight of it and the number of leaves or folios 
which the book in its integrity contained. As a further piece of 
presumptive evidence of the " Book of Lismore" having been mu- 
tilated in Cork about this time, allow me to read for you the follow- 
ing memorandum in pencil in an unknown hand which has come 
into my possession : 

^' Mr. Denis OTlyn, of Mallow Lane, Cork, has broughc a book 
from Lismore lately, written on vellum about 900 years ago by 
Miles O'Kelly for Florence McCarthy. It contains the lives of some 
principal Irish saints, with other historical facts, such as the wars of 
the Danes. 31st October, 1815." 

To this I may add here the following extract of a letter written 



648 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

by Mr. Joseph Long, of Cork, to the hxte WilUam ElHcott Hudson, 
of Dublin, Esq., dated February the 10th, 1848: 

" HoxORED Sir : I have taken the liberty of bringing this MS. 
to your honor. It contains yarious pieces copied from the ' Book 
of Lismore' and other old Irish MSS. They are pieces whose con- 
tents are Torbuis Droma Damhghoire,' a historic legend describ- 
ing the invasion of Munster by Cormac Mac Art, the wonderful 
actions of the Druids, Druidish incantations, and so forth ; • Air 
an da Fearmaighe,' a topography of the two Fermoys, together with 
an accotint of its chieftains, tribes, or families, and so forth ; ' Sael 
Fiachna mic Eeataich,' a legend of Xo^/^ ^^i in Connaught ; '^Hiag- 
hail do Kighthibh,' a rtile for kings composed by BubJi Mac Turth\ 
' Seel air Chairbre Cinn cait,' the murder of the royal chieftains of 
Erinn by their slaTCS, the descendants of the Firbolgs, and so 
forth — 'Book of Lismore.'" 

With all these evidences before me of a j^art of the '^ Book of 
Lismore" having been detained in Cork, in the year 1853 I pre- 
vailed on a friend of mine in that city to endeavor to ascertain in 
whose hands it was, what might be the nature of its contents, 
whether it would be sold, and at what price. All this my friend 
kindly performed. He procured me what purported to be a cata- 
logue of the contents of the Cork part of the ''Book of Lismore," 
and he ascertained that the fragment consisted of 66 folios, or 132 
pages, and that it would be sold for fifty pounds. 

I immediately offered, on the j)art of the Rev. Drs. Todd and 
Oraves, then the secretaries of the Eoyal Irish Academy, the sum 
named for the book, but some new conditions with which I had no 
power to conijoly were afterwards added, and the negociation broke 
off at this point. The book shortly after passed by purchase into 
the possession of Thomas Hewitt, Esq., of Summerhill House, near 
Cork, and in January, 1855, a memoir of it was read before the 
Cuverian Society of Cork by John Windele, Esq., of Blair's Castle, 
in which he makes the following statement : 

'^ The work, it was supposed, may have been a portion of the 
*Book of Lismore,' so well known to our literary antiquarians, but 
it is now satisfactorily ascertained to have been transcribed in the 
latter half of the fifteenth century for Fineen McCarthy Reagh, 
Lord of Carbery, and his wife Catherine, the daughter of Thomas, 
eighth Earl of Desmond. Unfortunately," he adds, ** the volume 
has suffered some mutilation by the loss of several folios. The ' Life 



EiLgciie GCitrry. 649 

of Fiimclien ' and the ' Forbuis ' are partly defective in consequence, 
but we possess among our local MS. collections entire copies of 
these lueces." 

To be sure, they have in Cork entire copies of these pieces, but 
they are copies by Michael O'Longan from the ^^Book of Lismore" 
before its mutilation among them, or else copies made from his 
copies by his sons. 

That Mr. Windele believed what he wi'ote about the Cork frag- 
ment there can, of course, be no doubt ; still, it is equally indubit- 
able that this same fragment is part and parcel of the ^^ Book of 
Lismore," and that it became detached from it while in the hands 
of Denis O'Flinn, of Cork, some time in the year 1816. And it is, 
therefore, equally certain that the book which Mr. Hewitt pur- 
chased, perhaps as an original lond-fide volume, with some slight 
losses, is nothing more than a fragment consisting of about one- 
third part of the '*' Book of Lismore," and that this part was 
fraudulently abstracted in Cork at the time above indicated. The 
two pieces which Mr. Wiudele ^particularizes as being defective in 
the Cork part are also defective in the Lismore part. The '^* Life of 
Saint Finnchn '' wants but about one page in the latter, while in 
Cork they cannot have more of it than one page or folio ; and of the 
*' Forbuis," something about the first half is at Lismore, while no 
more than the second half can be in Cork. And although I have 
never seen any part of the Cork fragment, I feel bold enotigh to 
say that should both j^arts be brought together in presence of com- 
petent judges, they will be pronounced to be j^arts of the same ori- 
ginal volume, and that several of the defects in either will be 
exactly supplied by the other. 

My transcript of the Lismore fragment of this valuable book 
consists of 131 folios, or 262 pages. The chief items of the con- 
tents are ancient Hves of St. Patrick, St. Colum Cille, St. Brigid 
of Kildare, St. Lenan (of Scattery Island in the Lower Shannon), 
St. Fmnen of Clonard, and St. Finnchn of Brigohlan, in the county 
of Cork, all written in Gaedhlic of great purity and antiquity ; the 
conquests of Charlemagne, translated from the celebrated romance 
of the middle ages ascribed to Turpin, Archbishop of Eheims ; the 
conversion of the Pantheon at Eome into a Christian church ; 
the story of Petronilla, the daughter of St. Peter ; the discovery of 
the Sibylline oracle in a stone coffin at Eome ; the history of the 
Lombards (imperfect) ; an account of St. Gregory the Great ; the 



650 The Prose and Poetry of Irelajid. 

heresy of tlie Empress Justina ; of some modification of certain minor 
ceremonies of the Mass on account of the successors of Charlemagne ; 
of the correspondence between Archbishop Lanfranc and the clergy at 
Rome : extracts from the travels of Marco Polo ; an account of the 
battles of the celebrated Caellacban, King of Cashel, with the 
Danes of Erinn in the tenth century ; of the battle of Crinna 
between Cormac Mac Art, King of Ireland, and the Ulstermen ; and 
of the siege of Drom Damligliaire (now called Knocklong, in the 
county of Limerick) by King Cormac Mac Art against the men of 
Munster. This last, though a strictly historic tale in its leading 
facts, is full of wild incident, in which Mbgh Ruitli, the gi'eat Mun- 
ster Druid, and Citliruadli and Colpatha, the Druids of the monarch 
Cormac, bear a most conspicuous and curious part. 

The last piece in the book is one of very great interest. It is 
in the form of a dialogue between St. Patrick and the two surviving 
warriors of the band of heroes led by the celebrated Fiiin Mac Cum- 
liaill Caoilte, the son of Ronan, and Oisin, the warrior poet, son of 
Fimi himself. It describes the situation of several of the hills, moun- 
tains, rivers, caverns, rills, etc., in Ireland, with the derivation of their 
names. It is as much to be reo:retted that this verv cimous tract is 
imperfect. But for these defects we should probably have found in 
it notices of almost every monument of note in ancient Ireland, and 
even in its mutilated state it cannot but be regarded as preserving 
many of the most ancient traditions to which we can now have 
access — traditions which were committed to writing at a period 
when the ancient customs of the 2^eoj)le were unbroken and undis- 
turbed. 

I regret that space does not allow me to analyze a few more of 
the important paper books in the Academy's library, but I think I 
have already done enough to enable you to form some intelligible 
ofeneral estimate of the value and extent of the old Gaedlilic books 
in Dublin, and I shall only add that the j^aper books in Trinity 
College and the Academy are above 600 in number, and may be es- 
timated to contain about 30,000 pages of Gaedlilic text if printed 
at length in the form to which I have so often referred as a speci- 
men — that of O'Donovan's '' Annals.'* There is, however, one col- 
lection— i-ather, I may sa}', one class of MSS. monuments of Irish 
history — which I cannot pass by without at least alluding to it, 
though it would be perhaps improj^er for me at the present moment 
to enter upon any detailed account of it, I mean the great body of 



Eugene O'Cuny. 651 

the laws of ancieut Erinn, commonly called by the English the 
Brehon Laws. This collection is so immense in extent, and the 
subjects dealt with throughout the whole of it in the utmost detail 
are so numerous and so fully illustrated by exact definitious and 
miuute descriptions, that to enable us to fill up the outline suppKed 
by the annals and genealogies these books of laws alone would 
almost be found sufficient in competent hands. Indeed, if it were 
permitted me to enlarge u^ion their contents, even to the extent to 
which I have spoken upon the subject of the various annals I have 
described to you, I should be forced to devote many lectni'es to this 
subject alone. But these ancient laws, as you are all aware, are 
now, and have been for the last three years, in progress of tran- 
scrij^tion and preparation for ^publication under the direction of a 
commission of Irish noblemeu and gentlemen appointed by royal 
warrant, and it would not be for me to anticipate their regular 
publication. 

The quantity of transcript abeady made (and there is still a part 
to be made) amounts to over 5,000 close quarto pages, which on 
average would be equal to near 8,000 pages of the text of O'Dono- 
van's ••'Annals." This quantity, of course^ contains many duplicate 
pieces, and it will rest with the commissioners whether to jmblish 
the whole mass or only a fair and full text comj^iled from a colla- 
tion of all the duplicate copies. Any one who has examined the 
body of Welsh Laws, now some years before the world, will at once 
be able to form a fair opinion of the interest and value in a histori- 
cal and social jooint of view of this far larger, this immense and 
hitherto unexplored, mass of legal institutes. And these were the 
laws and institutes which regulated the political and social system 
of a peoj^le the most remarkable in Europe from a period almost 
lost in the dark mazes of antiquity down to within about two hundi'cd 
years, or seven generations, of our own time, and whose spirit and 
traditions, I may add, influence the feelings and actions of the na- 
tive Irish even to this dav. To these laws mav we, indeed, justlv 
apply the expressive remark of the poet Moore on the old MSS. iu 
the Royal Irish Academy, that they ••' were not written by a foolish 
people, nor for any foolish purpose." Into the particulars and ar- 
rangements of this mass of laws I shall not enter here, since they 
are, as I have already stated, in the hands of a commission on 
"whose prerogatives I have no disposition to trench. I may, how- 
ever, be permitted to observe that, copious though the records in 



652 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

which the actions and everyday life of our rem ote ancestors hav 
come down to us through the various documents of which I have been 
speaking, still without these laws our history would be necessarily 
barren, deficient, and uncertain in one of its most interesting and 
important essentials. For what can be more essential for the histo- 
rian's purpose than to have the means of seeing clearly what the laws 
and customs were precisely, which governed and regulated the general 
and relative action of the monarch and the provincial kings, of the 
provincial kings and the hereditary princes and chiefs of these in 
turn, and of what may be called the hereditary proprietors, the 
Flaiths (pronounced ^^Flahs") or landlords, and below these again 
of their farmers and tenants of all grades and conditions, native 
and stranger ; and what is even more interesting, if possible, the 
conditions on which these various parties held their lands, and the 
local customs which regulated their agrarian and social policy, as 
well as in general the sumptuary and economical laws and the 
several customs which distinguished all these classes one from 
another, compliance with which was absolutely necessary to main- 
tain them in their proper ranks and respective privileges ? There 
are thousands of allusions to the men and women of those days, as 
well as to various circumstances, manners, customs, and habits to 
be met with in our historic writings, otherwise inexplicable, which, 
find a clear and natural solution in these venerable institutes. And 
there are besides, too, a vast number of facts, personal and histori- 
cal, recorded in the course of the laws (often stated by the com- 
mentator or scribe as examples or precedents of the application of 
the particular law under discussion) which must be carefully 
gleaned from before that history which is yet to be framed out 
of the materials I have described to you can ever be satisfactorily 
completed. 





cy 






THOMAS UARCY McGEE. 

*' One of the most gifted men of this age." — '• Popttlak History of the Ca- 
tholic Chtech rs' THE I':srrED States.*' 

*' Xo one, not even Davis, seems to have infused the spirit of Irish histon* so 
thoroughly into his mind and heart as Mc&ee." — The DrBixs' '■ Xatiox.*' 

**It has been said, and I think with truth, that McGee was, even more than 
Moore, entitled to be called the Bard of Erin, for that his genius was more dis- 
tinctively Irish, and his inspiration more directly and more exclusively from Ire- 
land and her ancient race." — Mbs. J. Sadlieb. 

THOMAS D'AECY McGEE was bom in the Uttle town of Car- 
lingfordj comity of Lontli, Ireland, on the 13th of April, 
1825. On both his fathers and mother's side lie belonged to 
Catholic and patriotic Irish families. His mother was the higlily- 
edncated daughter of a Dublin bookseller, a woman of exti*aordinaiy 
elevation of mind, an enthusiastic lover of her countiy, its music, 
its legends, and its wealth of ancient lore. ^ Is it necessary to de- 
scribe the influence of such a mother on the tender mind of her 
gifted son ? Mothers are soul-moulders. 

^•' Born and nurtured,'' writes his fi'iend, Mrs. J. Sadlier, ''amid 
the grand and lovely scenery of the Rosstrevor coast, his early 
childhood fleeted by in a region of wild, romantic beauty, which im- 
pressed itself for evermore on his heart and mind, and tended not a 
little, as we may well suppose, to foster, if not create, that poetic 
fancy which made the charm of his hfe, and infused itself into all 
he wrote and all he said.*" " 

Thomas was eight yeai's old when the family removed to the 
town of Wexford. Here, year after year, his wonderful genius de- 
veloped, without other aids than the advantage of a day-school. 
He studied hard, and was a great reader of history and poetry. 
But, after his seventeenth year, McGee was his own professor, the 
world was his university, and exi^erience his diploma. 

Coming to the United States in 1842, he soon distinguisli^d him- 

» Mrs. J. Sadlier, "Biographical Sketch of McGee," * n>id. 



654 ^/^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

self, and wlieii only nineteen years of age lie filled — and ably filled 
— the editorial chair of the Boston Pilot. The Native- American 
excitement was then at its height, and PhiladeljDhia and other cities 
were disgraced by riots, bnrnings, and mob-rule/ On all sides 
the Irish Catholics were attacked and vilified. ^'Tew were then 
their defenders in the press of America, but of those few stood 
foremost in the van Thomas D'Arcy McGee, a host in himself. 
With all the might of his precocious genius, and all the fire of his 
fervid eloquence, he advocated the cause of his countrymen and co- 
religionists, and so scathing were his fiery denunciations of the 
Native Americans, as the hostile party were styled, that all New 
England rang with their unwelcome echo." * 

The gifted young Irishman's fame crossed the Atlantic, and lie 
was invited by the proprietor of the leading daily journal in Dublin 
to become its editor. But he soon joined the Dublin Nation, the 
organ of the '^^ Young Ireland Party."' Davis, Duffy, Mitchel, 
McGee, and other bright young minds of Ireland made it, for a 
time, one of the most remarkable journals in Europe. This is not 
the place to describe McGee'S bold and stirring career as one of the 
Irish leaders in '48. Through the efforts of the patriotic Bishop 
Maginn he succeeded, disguised as a priest, in escaping to America, 
and lauded at Philadelphia in October, 1848. 

He began the New York Nation the same month ; and, some 
time later, his devoted young wife from Ireland joined him. In 
1850 McGee removed to Boston and commenced the publication of 
the American Celt. His subsequent career as a leading journalist, 
patriot, statesman, j^oet, orator, and historian is not unknown to 
the reading public. Ireland and the Catholic Church were his 
watchwords. 

In 1857 his countrymen of Montreal invited him to come 
amongst them, an invitation which he accepted, as he removed to 
Canada the same 3Tar. His career in Canada was distinguished. 
He soon entered the legislative halls north of the St. Lawrence, 
and all were obliged to recognize him as a man of marked ability. 
He was for years the chosen leader and eloquent spokesman of the 
Irish in Canada. 

It is now about twelve or thirteen years since the present writer, 

3 Fee the •• Popular History of the Catholic Church in the United States,"' book ti., 
chap. V, 
* Mrs. J. Sadlier, '■ Biographical Sketch of McGee." 



Thomas UArcy McGee. 655 

then a mere lad, whose highest ambitio]i was to be able to read 
fluently, parse a difficult sentence, and write a fair composition on 
a broomstick, or some other equally profound subject, was intro- 
duced to Mr. McGee. He was then in the height of his fame. 
The introduction was purely accidental. Some expressions, few 
but very kind, came from the lips of the eminent orator, author, 
and legislator. It was the first and the last time we ever saw him ; 
and little did the Hon. Thomas D'Arcy McGee, or any one else, 
imagine that the timid, bashful boy to whom he then spoke so 
affectionately, would one day carefully collect together some of 
his choice pieces in verse and prose, and endeavor to joerpetuate 
his bright and worthy name in the pages of history and litera- 
ture. 

McGee fell by the hand of a vile assassin in the capital of Canada. 
Nor was he the first great and good man who met such a melan- 
choly death. On the morning of April 7, 1867, passed from earth, 
in his forty-second year, the most gifted Irishman in America, and 
one of the richest and most splendid intellects of the nineteenth 
century. 

McGee contributed to nearly every department of literature, and 
it can be as truly said of him as of Goldsmith that ^^ he touched 
no subject which he did not adorn." He was the first to work up 
the crude materials of our Church history in his ^^ Catholic History 
of North America " ; and in his ^^ Irish Settlers in America." he 
was the first to point out what this Republic owes to old Ireland. 
^'O'Connell and his Friends," ^^The Irish Writers of the Seven- 
teenth Century," the ^' Life of Bishop Maginn," ^^ Attempts to 
Establish the Protestant Reformation in Ireland," ^^ A Popular 
History of Ireland," and ^^Poems," edited by his friend, Mrs. J. 
Sadlier, complete, we believe, the list of his works, and show the 
wide field in which his solid and brilliant Catholic mind exerted 
itself. Among the foregoing, the ^^ History of Ireland" holds the 
first place. It is, we think, the best brief work on that subject in 
the English language ; and if accuracy, sound judgment, philoso- 
phic grasp of thought, and a style pure, clear, and terse be merits 
in a writer of history, then McGee must ever hold a high rank as 
an historian. As a poet, he ranks with the first ; as an orator, 
journalist, and statesman, he has had, in our day and country, few 
equals and no superiors. 

Mr. McGee never sings so sweetly, nor do liis j)ages ever glow so 



656 The Prose ana Poetry of Ireland. 

warmly, as when lie treats of liis native isle, and of the glory and 
beauty and grandeur of the Catholic Church.* 



THE DYING CELT TO HIS AMERICAN SON. 

My son, a darkness falleth, 

Not of night, upon my eyes ; 
And in my ears there calleth 

A voice as from the skies ; 
I feel that I am dying, 

I feel my day is done ; 
Bid the women hush their crying 

And hear to me, my son I 

When Time my garland gathers, 

my son ! I charge you hold 
By the standard of your fathers 

In the battle-fields of old ! 
In blood they wrote their story 

Across its field, my boy ; 
On earth it was their glory. 

In Heaven it is their joy. 

By St. Patrick's hand 'twas planted 

On Erin's sea- beat shore, 
And it spread its folds, undaunted. 

Through the drift and the uproar. 
Of all its vain assaulters, 

Who could ever say he saw 
The last of Ireland's altars, 

Or the last of Patrick's law ? 

Through the Western ocean driven. 

By the tyi'ant's scorpion whips. 
Behold ! the hand of Heaven 

Bore our standard o'er the ships 

5 John O'Kane Murray, •' Popular History of the Catholic Church in the United States."^ 
For a very excellent and detailed sketch of Hon. Thomas D'Arcy McGee, see the " Bio- 
graphical Sket.h " by Mrs. J. Sadlier in McGee's ''Poems." 



Thomas UA^^cy McGee. 657 

In the forest's far recesses. 

When the moon shines in at night. 
The Celtic cross now blesses 

The weary wanderer's sight ! 

My son, my son ! there falleth 

Deeper darkness on my eyes ; 
And the Guardian Angel calleth 

Me by name from out the skies. 
Dear, my son, I charge thee cherish 

Christ's holy cross o'er all ; 
Let whatever else may perish. 

Let whatever else may fall ! 



THE CELTIC CROSS. 

Theough storm and fire and gloom I see it standi 

Firm, broad, and tall — 
The Celtic Cross that marks our fatherland, 

Amid them all ! 
Druids and Danes and Saxons vainly rage 

Around its base ; 
It standeth shock on shock and age on age, 

Star of our scattered race. 

holy Cross I dear symbol of the dread 

Death of our Lord, 
Around thee long have slept our martyr-dead. 

Sward over sward I 
A hundred bishops I myself can count 

Among the slain ; 
Chiefs, captains, rank and file, a shining mount 

Of Grod's ripe grain. 

The recreant's hate, the Puritan's claymore, 

Smote thee not down ; 
On headland steep, on mountain summit hoar,. 

Li mart and town : 



658 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

In Glen dalo ugh, in Ara, in Tyrone, 

We find thee still, 
Thy open arms still stretching to thine own. 

O'er town, and lough, and hill. 

And they would tear thee out of Irish soil, 

The guilty fools ! 
How Time must mock their antiquated toil 

And broken tools ! 
Cranmer and Cromwell from thy grasp retired. 

Baffled and thrown ; 
William and Anne to sap thy site conspired — 

The rest is known ! 

Holy Saint Patrick, Father of our Faith, 

Beloved of God ! 
Shield thy dear Church from the impending scaith ; 

Or, if the rod 
Must scourge it yet again, inspire and raise 

To emprise high 
Men like the heroic of other days. 

Who joyed to die ! 

Fear ! Wherefore should the Celtic people fear 

Their Church's fate ? 
The day is not — the day was never near — 

Could desolate 
The Destined Island, all whose seedy clay 

Is holy ground ; 
Its cross shall stand till that predestined day 

When Erin's self is drowned ! 



A SMALL CATECHISM. 

Why are children's eyes so bright ? 

Tell me why ? 
'Tis because the infinite 
Which they've left is still in sight, 
And they know no earthly blight — 
Tlierefore 'tis their eyes are bright. 



Thomas U Arcy Ale Gee, 659 

Why do cliildren laiigli so gay ? 

Tell me why ? 
'Tis because their hearts have play 
In their bosoms every day, 
Free from sin and sorrow's sway — 
Therefore 'tis they laugh so gay. 

Why do children speak so free ? 

Tell me why ? 
'Tis because from fallacy, 
Cant, and seeming they are free ; 
Hearts, not lips, their organs be — 
Therefore 'tis they speak so free. 

Why do children love so true ? 

Tell me why ? 
'Tis because they cleave unto 
A familiar, favorite few, 
Without art or self in view — 

Therefore children love so true. 



THE SHANTY. 

This is our castle ! enter in. 
Sit down, and be at home, sir; 

Your city friend will do, I hope. 
As travellers do in Eome, sir. 

'Tis plain the roof is somewhat low, 
• The sleeping-room but scanty. 

Yet to the settler's eye, you know. 
His castle is his shanty. 

The famine fear we saw of old 

Is, like a nightmare, over ; 
That wolf will never break our fold 

^or round the doorway hover. 
Our swine in droves tread down the brake, 

Our sheep-bells carol canty, 
Last night yon salmon swam the lake 

That now adorns our shanty. 



66o The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

That bread we break, it is our own, 

It grew around our feet, sir. 
It pays no tax to squire or crown, 

Wliicli makes it double sweet, sir ! 
A woodman leads a toilsome life. 

And a lonely one, I grant ye ; 
Still, with his children, friend, and wife, 

How happy is his shanty ! 

No feudal lord o'erawes us here. 

Save the ever-bless'd Eternal ; 
To him is due the fruitful year. 

Both autumnal and vernal. 
We've rear'd to him, down in the dell, 

A temple, neat though scanty. 
And we can hear its blessed bell 

On Sunday in our shanty. 

This is our castle ! enter in, 

Sit down, and be at home, sir ; 
Your city friend will do, I hope, 

As travellers do in Kome, sir. 
'Tis plain the roof is somewhat low, 

The sleeping-room but scanty. 
Yet to the settler's eye, you know. 

His castle is his shanty, 



TO MISS M. SADLIER. 

These humorous lines were placed in a Httle Indian basket presented by Mr. 
McGee to the young daughter of the late Mr. James Sadlier, Montreal. 

Ik a dream of the night I this casket received 
From the ghost of the late Hiawatha deceased. 
And these were the words he spoke in my ear : 
*' Mr. D'Arcy Neiu Era,^ attention and hear. 
You know Minnehaha, the young Laughing- Water, 
Mr. Sadlier of Montreal's dear eldest daughter ; 
To her bring this trifle, and say that I ask it, 
She'll treasure for my sake the light little casket." 

« At that time Mr. McGee was publishing in Montreal a journal called the New Era. 



Thomas UArcy McGee. 66 1 

This said, in his own solemn Longfellow way, 
With a bow of his plumed head, he vanislr d away. 
As I hope to be spared all such ghostly commands, 
I now place the said Indian toy in your hands. 
August 15, 1857. 



DEATH OF THE HOMEWARD-BOUND. 

Paler and thinner the morning moon grew. 
Colder and sterner the rising wind blew. 
The pole-star had set in a forest of cloud, 
And the icicles crackled on spar and on shroud. 
When a voice from below we feebly heard cry : 
^'' Let me see, let me see my own land ere I die. 

■^^ Ah I dear sailor, say, have we sighted Cape Clear ? 
Can you see any sign ? Is the morning light near ? 
You are young, my brave boy ; thanks, thanks for your hand ; 
Help me up till I get a last glimpse of the land. 
Thank God ! 'tis the sun that now reddens the sky ; 
I shall see, I shall see my o^vu land ere I die. 

^* Let me lean on your strength ; I am feeble and old. 
And one half of my heart is already stone cold. 
Forty years work a change ; when I first crossed this sea ; 
There were few on the deck that could grapple with me. 
But my youth and my prime in Ohio went by. 
And I'm come back to see the old spot ere I die." 

'Twas a feeble old man, and he stood on the deck. 
His arm around a kindly young mariners neck, 
His ghastly gaze fixed on the tints of the east. 
As a starveling might stare at the sound of a feast. 
The morn quickly rose, and revealed to the eye 
The land he had prayed to behold and then die. 

Creen, green was the shore, though the year was near done, 
High and haughty the capes the white surf dashed upon ; 
A gray, ruined convent was down by the strand. 
And the sheep fed afar on the hills of the land. 

** God be Tvdth you, dear Ireland !" he gasped with a sigh ; 

*' I hved to behold you — I'm ready to die. " 



662 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

He sank by the liour, and his pulse 'gan to fail 

As we swept by the headland of storied Kinsale. 

Off Ardigna Bay it came slower and slower, 

And his corpse was clay-cold when we sighted Tramore. 

At Passage we waked him, and now he doth lie 

In the lap of the land he beheld but to die. 



JACQUES CARTIER. ' 

In the seaport of St. Malo, 'twas a smiling morn in May, 
"When the Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward sailed away. 
In the crowded old cathedral all the town were on their knees. 
For the safe return of kinsmen from the undiscovered seas ; 
And every autumn blast that swept o'er jDinnacle and pier 
Filled manly hearts with sorrow and gentle hearts with fear. 

A year passed o'er St. Malo ; again came round the day 

When the Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward sailed away. 

But no tidings from the absent had come the way they went. 

And tearful were the vigils that many a maiden spent ; 

And manly hearts were filled with gloom, and gentle hearts with 

fear. 
When no tidings came from Cartier at the closing of the year. 

But the earth is as the future, it hath its hidden side. 

And the captain of St. Malo was rejoicing in his pride. 

In the forests of the North, while his townsmen mourned his loss. 

He was rearing on Mount Royal the fleur-de-lis and cross ; 

And. when two months were over and added to the year, 

St. Malo hailed him home again, cheer answering to cheer. 

He told them of a region, hard, iron-bound, and cold, 
Nor seas of pearl abounded, nor mines of shining gold : 
Where the wind from Thule freezes the word upon the lip. 
And the ice in spring comes sailing athwart the early ship. 
He told them of the frozen scene until they thrilled with fear. 
And piled fresh fuel on the hearth to make him better cheer. 

■^ The famous Catholic discoverer of Canada. It was he who conferred upon the most 
beautif al and majestic river in the world the name of St. Lazvnnce. 



Thomas UArcy McGee. 663 

But when he changed the strain, he told how soon is cast 

In early spring the fetters that hold the waters fast ; 

How the winter causeway, broken, is drifted out to sea. 

And the rills and rivers sing with pride the anthem of the free ; 

How the magic wand of summer clad the landscapes, to his eyes, 

Like the dry bones of the just when they wake in Paradise. 

He told them of the Algonquin braves, the hunters of the wild ; 

Of how the Indian mother in the forest rocks her child ; 

Of how, poor souls I they fancy in every living thing 

A spirit, good or evil, that claims their worshipping; ** 

Of how they brought their sick and maimed for him to breathe 

upon. 
And of the wonders wrought for them through the Gospel of St. 

John. 

He told them of the river ^ whose mighty current gave 

Its freshness for a hundred leagues to ocean's briny wave ; 

He told them of the glorious scene presented to his sight 

What time he reared the cross and crown on Hochelaga's height, 

And of the fortress cliff ^° that keeps of Canada the kej^. 

And they welcomed back Jacques Cartier from his perils o'er the sea. 



THE BLESSED YIEGm'S KOTGHT. 
A Ballad of the Crusades. 

Beneath the stars in Palestine seven knights discoursing stood. 
But not of warlike work to come, nor former fields of blood, 
]^or of the joy the pilgrims feel, prostrated far, who see 
The hill where Christ's atoning blood poured down the penal tree. 
Then* theme was old, their theme was new, 'twas sweet and yet 

'twas bitter ; 
Of noble ladies left behind spoke cavalier and ritter, 
And eyes gi*ew bright and sighs arose from every iron breast 
For a dear wife or plighted maid far in the widowed West. 

8 For an account of Indian belief and superstition see " Popular History of the Catholic 
Church in the United States," by John O'Kane Murray, chap, i., p. 43. 
® The St. Lawrence. 
1" Quebec. 



664 The Prose aiid Poetry of Ireland, 

Toward the knights came Constantiue, thi'ice noble by his birth. 
And ten times nobler than his blood his high ont-sliining Avorth. 
His step was slow, his lips were moved, though not a word he spoke. 
Till a gallant lord of Lombai'dy his spell of silence broke. 
*'• ^hat aileth thee, Constantine I that solitude yon seek ? 
If counsel or if aid you need, we pray thee but to speak ; 
Or dost thou mourn, like other freres, thy ladylove afar, 
Whose image shineth nightly through yon Euroi^ean star ? '' 

Then answered courteous Constantine: *' G-ood su\. in simple truth, 

I chose a gracious lady in the heyday of my youth ; 

I wear her image on my heart, and when that heart is cold 

The secret must be rifled thence, but neyer must be told. 

For her I love and Avorship well by light of mom or even ; 

I ne'er shall see my mistress dear tmtil we meet in heaven ; 

But this believe, brave cavahers, there never was but one 

Such lady as my ladylove beneath the blessed sun.*' 

He ceased, and passed with solemn step on to an ohve grove. 
And kneeling there he jDrayed a prayer to the lady of his love ; 
And many a cavaher whose lance had still maintained his own 
Beloved to reign without a peer, all earth's Trnequalled one. 
Looked tenderly on Constantine in camp and in the fight ; 
TTith wonder and with generous pride they marked the hghtning 

light 
Of his fearless sword careering through the unbeHevers ranks. 
As angiT Khone sweeps off the vines that thicken on his banks. 

^'' He fears not death, come when it will : he longeth for his love. 
And fain would find some sudden path to where she dwells above. 
How shotdd he fear for dvino^ when his mistress dear is dead ? '" 
Thus often of Sh Constantine his watchful comrades said ; 
Until it chanced from Zion wall the fatal arrow flew 
That pierced the outworn armor of his faithful bosom through ; 
And never was such mourning made for knight in Palestine 
As thy loyal comrades made for thee, beloved Constantine I 

Beneath the royal tent the bier was guarded night and day, 
Where, with a halo round his head, the Chiistian champion lay. 
That tahsman upon his breast, what marvel may that be 
Which kept his ardent soul through life from everv en'or free ? 



Tko7?ias U Any McGee. 66^ 



V 



Approach ! behold I nay, worship there the image of his love. 
The heavenly Queen who reigneth all the sacred hosts above ; 
Xor wonder that around his bier there lingers such a light. 
For the spotless one that slee}>eth was the Blessed Vibgix's 

KXIGHT ! 



IT IS EASY T(j DIE, 

It is easy to die 

When one's work is done. 
To pass fi'om the earth 
Like a harvest day's sun. 
After oi>ening the flowers and ripening the grain 
Bound the homes and the scenes where our friends remain. 

It is easy to die 

"WTien one's work is done. 
Like Simeon, the priest, 
Who saw God's Son ; 
Li the fulness of years, and the fulness of faith. 
It is easy to sleep on the clay couch of death. 

But it is hard to die 

TThile one's native land 
Has scarce strength to cry 
'Xeath the spoilers hand. 
mercifid God ! vouchsafe that I 
Mav see Ireland free : then let me die ! 



I LOVE THEE, XAEY I 

I MAT reveal it to the nighr, 

Where lurks arotmd no tattling fairy. 
With onlv siars and streams in siofht — 

I loYC, I love thee, Mary I 

Tour smile is like the dawn 

Xew breaking on the traveller weary ; 
My heart is, bird-like, to it drawn — 

I love. I love thee, Marv ! 



666 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

Your voice is like tlie August wind, 
Tliat of rich perfume is not cliarj. 

But leaves its sweetness long behind, 
As thou dost, lovely Mary ! 

Your step is like the sweet, sweet spring, 
That treads the flowers with feet so airy. 

And makes its green, enchanted ring. 
As thou dost, where thou comest, Mary ! 



AM I REMEMBERED IN ERIN ? 

Am I remembered in Erin ? 

I charge you speak me true ; 
Has my name a sound, a meaning 

In the scenes my boyhood knew ? 
Does the heart of the mother ever 

Eecall her exile's name ? 
For to be forgot in Erin 

And on earth is all the same. 

Mother, Mother Erin ! 
Many sons your age has seen — 

Many gifted, constant lovers 

Since your mantle first was green. 

Then how may I hope to cherish 
The dream that I could be 

In your crowded memory numbered 
With that palm-crown'd companie ? 

Yet faint and far, my mother. 
As the hope shines on my sight, 

1 cannot choose but watch it 

Till my eyes have lost their light ; 
For never among your brightest. 

And never among your best. 
Was heart more true to Erin 

Than beats within my breast. 



Thomas UArcy McGee. 667 

REBUKE TO THE laNORANT KNOW-NOTHINGS. 

[From " Lectures on the Catholic History of North America."] 

You make the term foreigner 11 reproach to us. Who are you ? 
Children or grandchildreiL of foreigners. And we, who are we ? 
The parentage of native generations, destined to rule this continent 
in conjunction with your children's children. In one sense we are 
all foreigners to America ; European civilization is foreign to it ; 
white complexions are foreign to it ; the Christian religion is foreign 
to it. 

The term conveys no stigma to the well-informed mind. The 
man of reading and reflection knows that at one time or other it 
was true of all humanity ; true of the first man, as it may be of the 
last. The history of our race is a history of emigration. In Asia 
Eden was, but without Eden lay the world. The first emigrants 
were that sad pair who travelled into the outer darkness, lighted by 
the glare of the fiery sword threatening at their backs. When their 
ears no longer caught the rustling of the trees of Paradise, or the 
flow of its living waters, they felt themselves truly emigrants. 

' ' Some natural tears they shed, but dried them soon • 
The world was all before them, where to choose 
A place of rest, and Providence their guide. " 

Upon what consolation did our first parents rest ? Upon labor and 
upon hope — '' Go forth and fill the earth and subdue it,*' and the 
promised Messiah. Since then the story of their posterity has been 
the same. Westward with the sun they travelled from the first, 
keeping on earth an apparent parallel to his apparent course. 

The cities of Enoch — Babylon, l^ineveh. Tyre, Thebes, Carthage, 
Eome — what are they ? Landmarks and tidemarks of the endless 
emigration. In the days before history, in the mountain mists of 
tradition, we see the dim forms of pioneers and leaders carrying 
their tribes from old homes to new homes over mountains and 
across straits and through the labyrinth of the primeval wilderness. 
All mythology is a story about emigrants, and the tale did not end 
when Hercules set up his pillars at the Strait of Gades," and for- 
bade his descendants to tempt the exterior ocean. The fearless 
Phoenician came, and swept by without slacking sail or heeding Her- 
cules. He went and came and went, disenchanting mankind of 
their fears. The Eomans talked of havino- reached the earth's ul- 



11 Now the Straits of Gibraltar. 



668 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

tlma, and so Europe rested for ages, in the full belief of the Eoman 
geography. At last Columbus rose, that inspired sailor who, dedi- 
cating his ship and himself to the protection of the Blessed Virgin, 
launched fearlessly into the undiscovered sea, and introduced the 
new world to the acquaintance of the old. After Columbus we 
came, borne onward by the destiny of humanity in obedience to the 
primitive charter of our race — ^^ Go forth and fill the earth and 
subdue it ; and in the sweat of yonr brow you shall earn your 
bread." 

The Irish emigrant stands on this high ground, and, so standing, 
he can look the past fearlessly in the face. He has no cause to be 
ashamed of his j^i'edecessors here. If they founded no exclusive 
New Ireland, the blood of no extermined Indian tribe rises in judg- 
ment against them ; if they were sole proprietors of no province, 
neither have they to answer for enslaving the African. They were 
here subordinates in power, but principals in labor. They could 
say — and we may say for them — that in no department of American 
development have the Irish mind and the Irish arm been unfelt. 

We have given the Union, in this nineteenth century, its greatest 
speculative and its greatest practical statesmen — -John C. Calhoun 
and Andrew Jackson. We have given the Union two Vice-Presi- 
dents, nine signers of the Declaration of Independence, six authors 
of the Constitution, ten major-generals to its army, and six commo- 
dores to its navy.^^ In science, in authorship, in oratory, we have 
been represented as well as in digging, delving, and carrying the 
hod. We can look history in the face, and, putting our hands upon 
any part of the fabric of the state, we can say as a people : ^'Tliis 
WSLS partly/ our work." 



THE CATHOLIC CHURCH AND THE IRISH IN AMERICA. 

[From " Lectures on the Catholic Hietory of North America."] 

LooKiKG at it merely as a social agent, the Catholic Church in 
America is of the utmost importance. To her appertains the science 
of theology — the soul that originally in-formed the framework of our 
civilization. Her doctrine is a system within which the grandest 
intellects have ample range ; her spirit is one of true progi'ess and 
real conservatism ; one which looks to truth, and not to popularity ; 
to all time, and not to the passion or fashion of the hour. As a 
mistress of philosophy, as a bulwark of order, as a stay of law, the 

1' This lecture was delivered in 1854. 



Thomas UArcy McGee. 669 

Catholic Church is, socially, the most im^Dortant of all religious in- 
stitutions to the peace and harmony of this confederation. Its silent 
power attracts to it all studious minds, and, by attraction or repul- 
sion, its presence is felt in every pulse and at every pore of American 
society. 

To us Catholics it is much more than a great social institution. 
It is the pillar and the ground of truth ; it is the work of God, and 
partakes of the attributes of its Author. Its decrees are justice it- 
self ; its mercy is inexhaustible ; its love is inexpressible ; its glory 
is incomprehensible. All other institutions which exist on earth 
the soul of man can fathom without fear ; but this divine founda- 
tion is rooted in the eternal tides, and he who seeks with his paltry 
plummet to fathom them seeks confusion and his own shame. The 
Catholic Church partakes, even in space, of the magnificence of its 
Maker. The morning sun, as he steps forth out of his chamber in 
the east, salutes it first of earthly objects, and the noonday sun 
looks down and cries : ^^ Lo ! it is here also I ** and the evening sun, 
as he i^asses away into the furthest west, lingers awhile upon its 
turrets, and pays a parting visit to its altars. 

To us it is the Church of our fathers, the Church of our exile, the 
Church of our children. It is poetr}', it is history, it is art, it is 
society, it is truth itself. Xo wonder, then, that every attack upon 
it sounds in our ears as a profanation ; no wonder we should prefer 
to hear every wrong the passions of the mob can plan or execute 
rather than for one moment to doubt or den}' that Holy Church. 

The Irish Catholics in America have been chiefly instrumental in 
bringing their faith into this countr}. They stand here in their 
highest relation to the destiny of America as church-builders. They 
have paid back the money of the Puritan by acclimating the cross 
in the atmosphere of the Puritan. They have made it known 
that the twenty-fifth of December is Christmas-day, and that God 
is to be honored iu his saints. The}' have practically brought to 
the American mind the idea that marriage is a holy sacrament, not 
a civil contract. In their small catechism they have introduced the 
profoundest system of Christian philosophy. All this they have 
done out of their poverty, but not without exciting derision, scorn, 
envy, jealousy, and fear — the whole tribe of the meaner passions of 
human nature. A tree of that size does not lift itself aloft without 
catching the gale, nor strike its strong roots around it without dis- 
turbing the earth. 



MOST REV. JOHN MACHALE, D.D., 

AECHBISHOP OF lUAM. 

*' The Lion of the Fold of Judah."— 0'Cox>txl. 

' * Xoble old man ! thy steadfast fiity years, 

INIitred with honor, yet with many woes, 
Have seen hope's snnshine follow bitter tears, 

Though Erin's friends oft spoke like Erin's foes ! 
Xo parchment makes thy glory, nor hath man 

A part in anght which doth to thee belong ; 
Thy title to our love hath ever ran 

In battle for the Eight, in hating Weong! " 

" He stands yet, calm and majestic as the grand old mountains oi his native 
Connemara, ruling his flock in wisdom and power, and heeding but little the 
angry assaults of those who cannot reach his altitude." — Xun of KENiiAHE. 

" rriHE mysterious hand which governs the UDiyerse/"' says the 

-J- profoiiucl Balmes. '' seems to hold an extraordinary man in 
reserve for every great crisis of society." It is in this light that we 
view Archbishop ^lacHale and his illnstrions career. 

John MacHale was born in tlie year 1791, at Tobarnavian, a vil- 
lage situated at the foot of Mount Xephin in the beautiful and his- 
toric valley of Xephin, the most romantic district in the county of 
Mayo. He belongs to an ancient and honorable Irish family, which 
nobly sacrificed its grandeur in this world that it might preseiwe it 
in the next. 

*'* The Archbishop of Tiiam," writes the Xitn of Kenmare, ^* is 
directly descended from Bishop Mac Caile. who received the pro- 
fession of St. Bridget. His family Hved for centuries in the valley 
where Amalgaid, then king of that county, met St. Patrick, near 
the wood of Fochut." ^ 

The spot of his nativity, encircled with scenery grand and roman- 
tic, with hills, lakes, and woods, and enriched with classic legends, 
proud liistoric recollections, and the glories of ancient Celtic poetry 
and valor, was well calculated to inspire the child of genius with 

1 '• Life of Daaiel OConnell," p. 520 note. 
670 



Most Rev, John Mac Hale, D.D. 671 

high aspirations, generous thoughts, lt)fty aims, and, above all, and 
before all, with a deep and lasting love of faith and fatherland.'* 

From the parish school young MacHale passed to an institution 
in the town of Castlebar, where he completed his classical studies. 

In 1807 he entered Maynooth College. An earnest and success- 
ful student, he carried off the highest honors of his famous Alma 
Mater. He devoted great attention to modern languages and litera- 
ture, making himself familiar with French, Spanish, Italian, and 
German. He read English literature extensively. Shakspeare and 
Edmund Burke, it is said, were his favorite authors. 

In 1819, but a few years after his ordination, Father MacHale 
was appointed to the high and very responsible position of Professor 
of Dogmatic Theology in Maynooth. He Avas elevated to the episco- 
pate on the 5th of June, 1825, being consecrated Coadjutor Bishop 
of Killala, his native diocese, with the title of Bishop of Maronia 
in panibus, by the Most Rev. Dr. Murray, Archbishop of Dublin. 
Bishop MacHale visited the Continent in 1831. On reaching Rome 
Pope Gregory XYI. received him with marked kindness, and just 
before leaving the Eternal City, the Holy Father presented him with 
a gold chalice of exquisite workmanship. It was during this 
memorable journey that Dr. MacHale visited the spots made dear 
and venerable by Irish sanctity or Irish valor. ^' The 2:>aths of 
our countrymen," he wrote, '' you can track by the streaks of glory 
that still linger on the lands which they traversed, and in the sanc- 
tuaries of their most magnificent cathedrals, as well as in the hearts 
of their present inhabitants, their ashes or their memories are de- 
voutly enshrined." ^ 

In 1834 Dr. MacHale was raised to the Metropolitan see of 
Tuam. At the Council of the Vatican he was the senior archbishop 
of the world and sat next to the patriarchs. In June, 1875, the 
great old man celebrated the fiftietli anniversary of his episcopate. 

Here we make no attempt to write the life of Archbishop Mac- 
Hale. We merely glance at it, noting a few dates and events. The 
story of his bright career would be the history of right against 
WROXG, in Ireland, for over half a century. 

The greatest of living Irishmen, he holds, and justly holds, the 
jirst place in the affections of the Irish race the world over. 

2 See the venerable Arclibishop's graphic description of his birthplace in his letter, 
p. 681. 
2 " Letters " of Archbishop MacHale. 



6/2 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

One evening, during liis attendance at the Synod of Thurles in 
1850, Dr. MacHale and a brother prelate went to take an evening 
walk in the suburbs of the town. They had not proceeded far 
when a stalwart Tipperary peasant reverently approached, and, 
kneeling before one of the jorelates, asked his blessing. After a 
moment's silence, however, the man raised his head, fixed his eyes 
on the bishop's face, and asked: *^^ Are you Archbishop MacHale ?" 
"No," replied the bishop; '^^this is the person," pointing to his 
companion. '^ Well, my Lord," said the brave peasant firmly and 
calmly, ^^\ want no blessing but that of Archbishop MacHale," 
and immediately kneeling at the archbishop's feet he received 
the blessing of the great Irish patriarch, and went his way 
rejoicing." 

"He is," says an able writer, "truly the uncrowned monarch of 
that faithful, chivalrous, and warm-hearted people, no matter in 
what quarter of the globe their lot may be cast. Their friends have 
been his friends, and their enemies his enemies. True as the needle 
to the pole to the ennobling traditions of his heroic and martyred 
ancestors, he has, for nearly sixty years, advocated the rights of his 
countrymen with unpurchasable fidelity and unconquerable courage. 
With a voice loud as that of the tempest, loud as the angry ocean, 
loud as that which pealed from Sinai, he has denounced theii* 
wrongs before earth and high heaven ; branded their hereditary foes 
with infamy ; resisted every open attack, and exposed every covert 
assault on the rights and freedom of his episcopal brethren. Like 
the seraph Abdiel, he has kept his loyalty, his love, his zeal. Xo 
opposition could shake for a moment his unbending courage; no 
tempting offer could seduce him from the path of patriotism ; no 
threats could terrify him. No wily English statesman could ever 
overreach him, ever mislead him ; yet Englisli policy and intrigue 
sometimes deceived Grattan, deluded O'Connell, and made dupes 
and victims of other distinguished Irishmen. It is a remarkable 
fact that Archbishop MacHale has never made one political mistake 
during his long and glorious career ! " ^ 

Dr. MacHale's pen has been a power for the l^^t fifty -seven years. 
In 1820 he came out as a public writer of marked ability under the 
nom de illume of " Heriophilos." His letters attracted wide atten- 
tion. He afterwards wrote under his various official names — John, 

* The CatJiolic Record for June, 1875. 

^ ma. 



Most Rev, John Mac Kale, D D. 673 

Bisho|) of Maronia : John, Bishop of Killala; and. finally, John, 
Archbishop of Tnam. His select public letters, edited by himself, 
and extending fi'om 1820 to 1846, were published in one large 
Yolume in 184T. These letters rank with those of Junius and Dr. 
Doyle. 

Dr. MacHale's " Evidences and Doctrines of the Catholic Church, '* 
published in 1827, is a masterly production. It has been translated 
into the French. German, and Italian lansfuas^es. But the venerable 
archbishop is not only an illustrious prelate, j^^^i'^ot, and prose 
writer, he is also an eminent poet. He has translated the greater 
portion of Homers ''Iliad." into heroic Irish metre ; and, greater 
than all, he has enriched the ancient and noble literature of Ireland 
by translating over eighty of ^loore's Irish melodies into the Irish 
language in the same metres which ^loore himself employed. Irish 
is the fii'st language that Dr. MacHale spoke, and, without any 
doubt, he is the greatest living master of that language. His style, 
like himself, is marked by rare strength and dignity. He is one of 
the veiy few writers in the history of the world who has enriched two 
languages with the rich productions of his golden pen — masterpieces 
of English, masterpieces of Irish. 

We conclude this imperfect sketch with a few stanzas written on 
the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of the archbishop's episco- 
pate : 



*' Thou greatest bishop at St. Peter's throne, 

Bent with the weight of honored years of toil, 
Like a round-tower standins^ ffrav, alone. 

Upon thy native Erin's sacred soil — 
This day, which seals thy fifty glorious years 

With holy benediction and loud praise. 
Salutes thee first among thy mitred peers. 

Crowned with the laurel-wreath of fruitful days. 



" Noble old man ! thy steadfast fifty years. 
Mitred with honor, yet with many woes. 
Have seen hope's sunshine follow bitter tears, 
Though Erin's friends oft spoke like Erin's foe: 



674 ^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

No parchment makes thy glory, nor hath man 
A part in aught which doth to thee belong ; 

Thy title to our love hath ever ran 
In battle for the right, in hating wrong ! 



'* Thou wert no whining hound at Saxon feet, 

Begging with expectation, faint and sick. 
Such countenance as to a dog were meet, 

That equal boon — a halfpenny or kick ! 
Thou heldst too high the glory of the Gael 

To wear dishonor's badge — a foeman's smile ! 
Thou heart so true to ancient G-ranu Wail ! 

Thou strong right hand of Erin's holy isle ! 



Others might fall, but thou wert ever true. 

Undaunted patriot, freedom's pioneer ! 
First of the honest, great, immortal few 

Who live in Ireland's heart, for ever dear ! 
Thy monument shall need no epitaph. 

Cold as the marble it is writ upon ; 
Millions shall wash with tears the paragraph 

Which in God's time shall cry : ' The saint is gone ! ' 



** The heart of Erin everywhere to-day 

Throbs with the magic of a mighty love ; 
'God bless his life and death,' the millions pray, 

^ And crown him with celestial light above ! ' 
Ay, take him to your hearts, ye exiled band ; 

For who more worthy of the love of Gael 
Than he whose name is blest in every land, 
True patriot-priest, immortal John MacHale ! 



Most Rev. John MacHale, DD, 675 

N] h-T\X]l. ?lNSa 5-CPU3KlKie aON CUQOaP, NO 5Lea.KIN.« 
TFot)!) — Se<xT) ce<vT)T) Oot)<xc<v. 

I. 

'\^ b-fu^l <vT)t<v 5-cTiuiT)T)e <xot) cuTT}ati, T)o 5le<vi)i), 
2^<vTi <3it) 1<V5 <v 13-fUil co-trvtxc t)<x bfr' <vb<vT)T) <xt)T); 
JT lu<vice l)ei6e<v-r e<vl<vi5ce uaiTT) tt)' <v|iTi<vn), \ Tt)o bjifs, 
'Kl<x CTVlOT)T:\xf <vi) 5le^T)T) 5l<vT u6 uji <vr tt)o CTio^be. 

II. 

Klf l)e <VT) c-<vTt)<vTvc b|ie^5, Kvo^bii)!) bf T5<vjic<v aiti 5<vc c<vob, 
Nf l)e loT)T)<xT|i <!iT) cftiofc^il, t)^ tt|i-bl^c t)<\. 5-CTKvob, 
Nf l)e coTT)5<vTt 7)<v -ptiuca Tt)<vji eu5-ce6l TT)T}^-]*f5e, 
?lcc T)i6 ei5iT) T)fof bflfe c^ <v i)-boTTi)T)e<vcc <xt) cnoi6e: 

III. 
S^-cvb n)o c^iT^be, bo ce<vi)5<vil Tr)o cuTt)<vi)T) 't ti)o cl<voi), 

OO rC<^'P <'^1T^ 5<'^C 13f6 <VT)T), tS^ITt) t^TC<V 1)<!k. TT)f<VT) ; 

OiTx ^f'l- <'^0T) 7)f6 b'<v ^lUe i)<vc TT)e<vbtti5e<vi)T) <3i 131^6, 
0'<v f:eicrtiiT) cTie fuilib -aifi <v ti)-bfbe<vi)T) <v5<vii)i) 511^6. 

IV. 

?l 3le<vT)T) <voibii)i) c<vc-<vbi)<v, bu6 tu<v|Ti)i)c<vc njo ttt<vT) 
TP<voi ■p<vf5<v6 bo c^b^ft) le tt)o ca^Kv -pfoii-bu^ii), 
'h^ ^-[c <v TT)-beTbTT)Uib 6 t)<v -rfoT)c<v-ib ^<voi b]bewt) 50 r^^ 
'S <vTv 5-CTioibce Ti)a|v bo c^ tti)- tTvuc<v c6iTi)e<vf5c<v le b^itr 



LETTER FROM ROME. 

Rome, March 27, 1832. 
The first of my visits to manifest tlie homage of my dutiful reve- 
reDce to tlie Holy Father ^ was a few days after my arrival. It was, 
to a Catholic bishop from Ireland, a visit fraught with consolation. 
^Notwithstanding all the efforts which an impious policy had recourse 
to to sever our connection with the chair of Peter — efforts far more 
ingenious in their cruelty than those of the earlier persecutions that 

^This is Dr. MacHale's Irish translation of Moore's beautiful melody, "The Meeting 
of the Waters." For the original in English, see page 509. 
"* Gregory XVI. 



6j6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

liunted the Christians into the catacombs — it was a gladsome intro- 
duction to be presented to the good Father of the Faithful, and to 
receive at his feet the apostolical benediction. He is "vvorthy of the 
elevation to which he has been raised. Benevolence I it is too weak 
a word ; affectionate charity beams in every feature of the good 
pontiff, nor is there wanting that visible indication of a stern and 
unbending intrepidity of character which will not fail whenever 
it may be necessary to vindicate the dearest interests of religion. 

The interval between Christmas and Easter was occupied in 
visiting the most conspicuous churches, galleries, colleges, and libra- 
ries of Eome, together with occasional excursions to the remarkable 
places in the vicinity which history and fable have so much asso- 
ciated with the early fortunes- of Rome. On the feast of the Epi- 
phany it was a rare and interesting spectacle to see priests from the 
different Eastern churches, Armenians, Greeks, and Maronites, 
celebrating Mass in their own j)eculiar rites and in their o^vn respec- 
tive tonsfues. The Stmdav within its octave witnessed one of the 
most gratifying exhibitions which any country could exhibit, the 
young students, to the number of abotit fifty, dehvering composi- 
tions before the assembled dignitaries of Rome, in the varied lan- 
guages of their respective countries. It was a scene which bore at- 
testation to the Catholics of the faith of Rome, as well as to the 
union which links its most distant members, to see a number of 
young men brought up in adverse national prejudices, and speaking 
from their infancv different lanoniaofes, now assembled tosrether and 
moulded into one intellectual mass, animated by one spirit, and, 
like their ^predecessors of old, in the day of Pentecost, all un- 
derstanding through their different dialects the voice and faith of 
Peter, conveved in one sino^le lano^uao^e, is a continuance of the ofif t 
of tongues still perpetuated in the Church, and which cannot fail 
to make its impression on a reflecting and religious mind. In the 
evening a large and selected society of some of the most distin- 
guished strangers in Rome, as well as the natives, enjoyed the ele- 
gant and princely hospitaUty of the Cardinal Prefect of the ProjDa- 
ganda. On that occasion Monsignore Mezophanti * addressed a 
large number of the guests in their respective European or Oriental 
dialects with ease, if not with elegance. His acquirements as a 
linguist are rare and extraordinary. Crassus and others acquired 
great celebrity for their ready talent in conversing with strangers in 

8 Afterwards a cardinal. The name is sometimes written Mezzofaixti. 



Most Rev. John MacHale, D.D. 677 

their own language ; it is not, I am sure, any exaggerated praise to 
assert that in variety of languages, or readiness in speaking them, 
they could not have reached the, excellence of Mezophanti. 

Among the numerous and richly-assorted libraries with which 
Rome abounds, the Vatican is far the first in the number and va- 
riety of its volumes. It may be, therefore, easily inferred that far 
beyond competition it is the first in the world. Its majestic en- 
trance is worthy of such a library, as well as of the celebrated pope, 
Sixtus Quintus, who contributed so much to its literary treasures as 
well as to the embellishment of its architecture. A magnificent 
jncture, seen as you enter, exhibits Fontana, the architect, unfold- 
ing his plan to the pontiff ; then you behold on one side a series of 
the most celebrated libraries in the world, and on the other a suc- 
cession of the G-eneral Councils by which the faith of the Catholic 
Church was illustrated. This library has been generally entrusted 
to men of vast erudition, who were able to profit of its treasures, 
and again to return them with interest, enriching them with valua- 
ble productions of their own. Such was Assemanl, whose Oriental 
researches conferred additional celebrity on the library of the 
Vatican. And such is the Monsignore Mai, the present librarian, 
•distinguished for his valuable literary labors in restoring manu- 
scripts which were thought to have been lost. His courtesy and 
kindness in affording the easiest access to this treasury of science 
and of literature I feel much pleasure in acknowledging, for it 
earned a claim to my gratitude. 

But, indeed, courtesy has been the characteristic quality of all the 
librarians in Rome in affording to visitors every facility of study 
and research. Such I experienced at the great libraries of Ara 
Ooeli and the Minerva, and such too at St. Isidore's and the Barbe- 
rini library, in which documents and manuscripts connected with 
Irish history abound. To that of St. Isidore my visits were fre- 
quent, as I found there a number of Irish manuscripts. Besides, I 
loved to contemplate the portraits of celebrated Irishmen which 
decorate its walls, especially those of two of the most- illustrious 
men of their age and nation — Luke Wadding, the learned author 
of the ^^ Annals of the Franciscans," and Florence O'Mul Conry, 
Archbishop of Tuam, to whose zeal and labors we are indebted for 
the foundation of Louvain, and the education of many eminent 
men who conferred honor on their country. When one thinks of 
the dark and difficult times in which those men lived, and the 



6yS The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

miglity tilings they achieved for their country and their religion, he 
feels confirmed still more in his holy faith, since they must have 
been endued with more than human fortitude in achieying such 
gi'eat enterprises. I met but one solitary exception to this general 
disposition to accommodate in the keepers of the literary establish- 
ments in the Eternal City. This exception was in the archives of 
the Vatican, a department quite distinct from its library. It is an 
immense collection of documentary papers and instruments, bulls, 
letters, and rescripts from the earlier ages to the present time. I 
was anxious to look for some documents that would throw light 
upon our ecclesiastical history, and enable me to fill up some chasms 
in the succession of our bishoj)s during the persecutions. To my 
great surprise, delay succeeded to delay in such manner as to make it 
evident that the keeper wished to deny me all access to the records 
which I sought. On animadverting on conduct which appeared to 
me so unaccountable, I found that the reverend gentleman was a 
pensioner of the British Government, emj)loyed to send them such 
extracts of state papers as would elucidate the public transactions 
connected with the history of England. Here, in this solitary in- 
stance, I found the perverse influence of British money, and drew 
my conclusion on the misfortune that would come over Ireland if 
ever the Government should succeed in pensioning the Catholic 
hierarchy. This man's sympathies, duties, feelings, seemed to be 
all absorbed by his gratitude for British money. To our oiDpress- 
ors, as far as he was concerned, the archives were open ; to the 
Catholic victims of their persecution alone they Avere inaccessible. 
However, a gentle hint that I would look for redress from the pon- 
tifical Government — nay, that his conduct should be reported to 
the House of Commons, who might take this reverend pensioner to 
task, wrought in him a kinder tone of feeling, and procured for me 
a sullen and reluctant admittance. Amidst the huge mass of docu- 
ments I could not succeed in the object of my search. However, I 
lighted on many rare and curious letters that well recompensed me 
for my loss. Among others, I was shown one of Mary Queen of 
Scots, written to the pope in her own hand, on the day preceding 
her execution. It was a precious relic, which had the ai)pearance 
of being discolored by tears. It is no wonder ; such a letter could 
not be written or read without deep emotion. It led to a long train 
of thought on the checquered life and tragic death of a woman of 
whom her age was not wortliy. Xay, the bitter prejudices of her 



Most Rev, John MacHale, D.D. 679 

time seem to have descended to posterity. There was no chivah-y 
then in justice to guard her life, nor chivah-y in history to vindi- 
cate lier fame. But time will avenge her wrongs, and I could 
cheerfully encounter more of the sullenness of the pensioned Ma- 
rini to have the gratification of reading such an autograph helong- 
ing to this illustrious and ill-used queen, whose misfortunes created 
a sympathy which the misdeeds of the perfidious monarchs of her 
race were not able to obliterate. 

Not far from the Vatican, on the Janiculum, the southern brow 
of the same hill, is a monument which will fail not to tell the Irish 
travellers of what their ancestors suffered from the offspring of 
Mary Stuart. The small Church of St. Peter, designed by Bra- 
mante, and which reminds you of the Temple of Vesta, 011 the banks 
of the Tiber, or of the Arno, at Tivoli, contains this melancholy 
monument. A slab of marble in the middle of the floor, with the 
names of O'Neil and O'Donnell, recalls to memory the flight of 
those noble chieftains on a pretended conspiracy, set on foot to en- 
able the ungrateful James to partition among a horde of English 
and Scottish Calvinists their hereditary domains, together with six 
counties of the province of Ulster. Few, whatever may be their 
opinions or feelings on the justice of those ancient quarrels, or the 
policy that dictated such cruel confiscations, could refuse a sigh or 
a tear to the memory of the gallant Tyrone, the hero of Bealanath- 
buide, who had sustained so long and so bravely the sinking for- 
tunes of his country against the combined armies of Elizabeth. It 
was difficult to resist the rush of feeling which was called forth by 
the contemplation of the close of his career, as well as by the in- 
gratitude of his own degenerate countrymen. Here, bowed down 
by misfortune and blind through age and infirmity, this gallant 
warrior closed his life like another Belisarius, outlawed and at- 
tainted even by the suffrages of those Catholics whom he saved 
from utter ruin, without their interposing one solitary vote for his 
protection. It is well that Christendom has a home for the fallen 
and the broken-hearted. It is well that there should be some heal- 
ing asylum where one can find refuge from the ingratitude and 
perfidy of the world. That home has been, and shall ever be found, 
in the city of the successors of St. Peter, and I closed this sad and 
soothing train of reflections by offering up a heartfelt j^rayer for 
the devoted patriot, who, I trust, has found that lasting home 
^^ where sorrow and grief shall be no more." 



6 So The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

My excursions tbrougli Ostia, Albani, Frescati, and Tivoli, etc., 
during which I sojounied chiefly iu the convents that are scattered 
thronghout those districts, afforded much of instructive and agj^ee- 
ab]e relaxation. The curiosities of those classic territories are as 
farniliar as the territories themselves are far famed, nor shall I oc- 
cupy the readers time by their repetirion. The lives of the solitary 
anchorets of CauialdoU would appear too tame a narrative to some 
who might relish better more varied and stinging scenes. Yet 
among those monks and such other recluses is to be found a cheer- 
fulness and lightness of heart to which the world is an utter 
stranger, and which it can never imagine to he the inhabitant of 
such abodes. There was one convent in particular which I felt pe- 
culiar gratification in visiting — that of St. Benedict, at Subiaco. 
Here, near the brink of the Arno, and under a line of frowning 
rocks, parallel to the stream, is situated the monastery of the holy 
and celebrated founder of the Benedictines. Xear is another, de- 
dicated to his sister. St. Scholastica. I silent some days in this holy 
retreat, enjoying the kind hospitahty of the good abbot. In the 
chapel — pai'tly formed out of the cave in which the saint lay con- 
cealed for three years, fed by an intimate friend — I offered uji the 
sacrifice of the Mass. A beautifiQ marble statue of the saint under 
the rock, together with the leaves bearing the imjDress of the ser- 
pent by which he was so tempted that he rolled himself amidst the 
thorns to extinguish the flames of concupiscence, still recall the 
memoiy of his early combats and his early triumj^hs. 

I rettirned to Eome before Palm Sunday, remaining there dtiring 
the ceremonies of Holy Week. Ir was a week that embodied more 
of the impressive lessons and practice of religion than many other 
weeks put together. Many visit Eome from afar, though unable 
to remain longer than during those few days, and well do they find 
their toil and piety rewarded. The solemn tones of the Miserere in 
the Sixtine Chapel make them forget all their cares and fatigues, 
and transport the soul to heaven. The kind and charitable attention 
paid to the pilgrims in the establishment set apart for that ptirpose 
makes such an impression on strangers, that I have heard young 
Americans exclaim with wonder and delight that if there was true 
religion in the world, it was to be found in the charity of Eome. 
The washing of the feet by the Holy Father is another tender and 
affecting oflSlce, which fails not to exhibit in the minds of the as=- 
tonished spectators the connection between him and the Fonnder 



Most Rev. 'John Mac Hale, D,D. 68 1 

of the Cliurch, whose hnmilitv and chanty he thtts imitates. In my 
observatious on Christmas day I have abeady given some faint idea 
of the Pontifical Mass. The Pontifical Mass of Easter Sunday 
brings an additional ceremony of most imposing solemnity — the 
benediction from the balcony of St. Peters. One cannot witness a 
more totiching or magnificent ceremony. The Holy Father, accom- 
panied by the cardinals, bishops, prelates, and other ecclesiastics, 
who formed the procession, ascended to the centre of the balcony. 
The yast sqtiare was thronged with the moving multitudes below. 
Dotibtless there were among them foreigners who differed in faitli 
from the vast body of the people. The pontiff lifted his arm, waved 
his hand in the form of a cross : no sooner did he j^ronounce the 
blessing than all knelt, and, as if under the influence of the same 
mysterious spirit that subdtied St. Paul, I think there was not one 
that was not prostrate to receive, through the person of his Vicar 
upon earth, the benediction of the Piedeemer of the world. 

•^ JoHx, Bishop of Maeoxia. 



LETTEK FROM THE PLACE OF HIS BIRTH. 

TOBAEXAVIAX, July 4, ISort. 

" Graionim cedant rivuli, cedant Romolidum fontes, 
En ibi salubrior longe, scarariens unda ; 
Quae Uvam sanitare superans, nomen indidit agro 
Ex quo earn hausere inclyti Fianorum Heroes." 

'* Air shriuf na Roimhe 'gns na n-Greug, 
Bheir Tobar na bh-fian, sior bhar go h-eug ; 
Bhians de fbior-uiige 'g-coghnaid lann, 
'S ta map shu caora-fiona, slann, 
Do thug don bhaille anim 's call 
d' 61 as Fiana Innis Fail." 

IxDEPEXDEXTLY of the bcautifttl scenery by which it is encom- 
passed, the spot from which I now write possesses for me those 
pecuHar charms which are ever found associated with the place of 
our birth. It is, I think, St. John Chi-ysostom remarks, contrast- 
ing the correct and truthful sinq^licity of youth with the false and 
fastidious refinement of .after-li^e, that if you present to a child his 
mother and a queen, he hesitates not in his preference of the one, 
however homely her costume, to the other, though arrayed in the 



682 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

richest attire of royalty. It is a feeling akin to that filial reve- 
rence which the Almighty has planted in our breasts towards our 
l^arents that extends also to the place where we first drew our being, 
and hallows all its early associations. This religious feeling is the 
germ of true patriotism, radiating from the centre home, and tak- 
ing in gradually all that is around, until it embraces the entire of 
our country. It is this mysterious sentiment, common alike to the 
rude and the ciyilized, that gives his country the first place in each 
man's estimation, and makes him regard the most refined or the 
most prosperous as only second to his own. I should not value the 
stoicism that would be indifferent to such a sentiment, and if it be 
a weakness, it is one that is as old as the times of the Patriarchs, 
and which some of the best and wisest men in the Catholic Church 
have consecrated by their example. 

To him who wishes to explore the ancient history of Ireland, its 
topography is singularly instructive. Many of its valuable records 
have been doomed to destruction, but there is a great deal of im- 
portant information written on its soil. Unlike the topogra^^hy of 
other countries, the names of j^laces in Ireland, from its largest to 
its most minute denominations, are all significant, and exj^ressive 
of some natural qualities or historical recollections. If the Irish 
language were to perish as a living language, the topography of 
Ireland, if understood, would be a lasting monument of its signifi- 
cance, its copiousness, its flexibility, and its force. A vast number 
of its names is traceable to the influence of Christianity. Such are 
all those commencing with cill, of which the number is evidence 
how thickly its churches were scattered over the land. The same 
may be said of teampul and tearmum, but, being derived from the 
Latin language, they are more rare than the word cill, a genuine 
Celtic word. The words commencing with lios and 7'atli are sii])- 
posed to ascend to the time of the incursions of the Danes ; but 
whatever be the period of their introduction, they and dun are ex- 
pressive of military operations. Other denominations imply a ter- 
ritory, either integral or in parts, such as tir, bailie, leath, trian, 
ceathradh, cuigadh, etc., and mean the country, the village, half, 
third, fourth, or fifth of such a district. It is from cuigad, or a 
fifth portion, our provinces were so called ; and though now but 
four provinces are generally named, the corresponding word in Irish 
signifies a fifth, as ciiig cliuighaide Eirean, or the five i^rovinces of 
Ireland. Hence, if a stone were not to be found to mark the ruins 



Most Rev, John MacHale, B.D. 683 

of the magnificence of Tara, tlie Irisli name of a proyince will re- 
main an enduring attestation of the ancient monarchy of Meath. 

The name of rus, or Eos, so frequentl}^ characterizing some of 
our Irish townlands, always signifies a 23eninsula or promontory, 
or, for a similar reason, an inland spot surrounded by moor or 
water. The words commencing with magh, or Moy, signify exten- 
sive plains, and assume the appellation of cluan when comparatively 
retired. The highlands, from the mountain to the sloping knoll, 
are well known by sliabli, chnoc, tullagh, or Tully, and learg, while 
glean, lag, called in English Glyn and Lag, denominate the low- 
lands and the valleys. It is not to be supposed that the number- 
less lakes and streams that cover the plains or descend from its 
hills had not a large influence in giving their names to a great por- 
tion of the country. Accordingly we find loch, tobar, dbliain, 
seadan, forming the commencement of the names of several town- 
lands and villages. The qualities by which these several names are 
modified are as various as the j)roperties of the soil and the tradi- 
tional records of each locality. 

Tobarnavian has, like other ancient names, employed and divided 
skilful etymologists and antiquarians. Some have derived the name 
from the excellent quality of its waters, not inferior to the juice of 
the grape, whilst others, with more strict regard to the just rules 
of etymology, as well as the truth of history, have traced it to the 
old legends of the Fenian Heroes. Tobar an fliioin would be its 
correct name according to the first derivation, whereas Tobar na 
b-Jian is its exact and grammatical appellation as connected with 
the historical and jjoetical legends of the followers of the great 
leader of the ancient Irisli chivalry. Its situation, as well as the 
tales connected with the scenery by which it is surrounded, gives 
additional force to this etymology. It is situated at the base of 
Xephin, the second among all the mountains of Connaught in ele- 
vation, and inferior but to few in Ireland. The south view is 
bounded by a portion of the Ox Mountains, stretching from the 
Atlantic, in the form of an amphitheatre. They are called the 
Barna-na-gaoitli Mountains from a narrow and precipitous defile 
where the storm rules supreme, and rendered famous by the pass- 
age of the French in 1798, on their way to Castlebar.' Eound the 

» As exciting events take a strong hold of the youthful mind, the age of seven years at 
the time— the interval between 1791 and 1798 — enables me vividly to recollect the distress- 
.ing incidents of that period. 



684 The Prose and Poetry of Irelaiid. 

base of this circuitous range of hills is seeu, as if to sleep, the 
peaceful surface of the beautiful Lake of Lavalla, bordering on the 
woods of Massbrook. Directly to the east, the large Lake of Con 
stretches from the Pontoon, to the northwest the lofty hill of CJinoc 
Xania intercepting the Tiew of its surface, and again revealing to 
the eye, on the north side of the hill, another portion of the same 
sheet of waters. . Beyond the extremity of the lake you can con- 
template some of the most cultivated and picturesque portions of 
Tyi'awley, stretching along in the distance as far as the hill of 
Lacken, of which the view is animated by a fanciful tower of modem 
construction. 

Such is the view that presents itself from this elevated spot, 
forminsr tlie summit level of the district, from the sea to the Ox 
Mountains. In this remote district, secluded by its encircling 
woods, hills, and lakes, the olden legends and traditions of the 
land were preserved with a fond and religious fidelity. AVhen the 
other provinces of L*eland and a large portion of Connaught were 
overrim and parcelled out among strangers, the territories of Ty- 
mwley were inherited by the descendants of the ancient septs until 
its fair fields were at length invaded and violated by the ruthless 
followers of Cromwell. For its Ions: immunitv from the scours^e of 
the despoiler it paid at length the forfeit in the increased oppres- 
sion to which its inhabitants were doomed : and whilst the descend- 
ants of the ancient settlers were mingled in a commtinity of blood 
and interest with those of the Celtic race in other parts of Ireland, 
the Catholics of Tyrawley, like those of TipjDerary, were doomed to 
be treated by those more recent taskmasters as aliens in country, in 
language, and in creed. 

The retired position of Glyn-Xephin afforded a sectire asylum to 
the songs and traditions of the olden times, and the indignities to 
which the inhabitants were subjected by the Covenanters who were 
planted among them served but to endear every relic of story or of 
minstrelsy which time had transmitted. Itwas here Bunting " col- 
lected some of the most tender and pathetic of those ancient airs t-o 
which Moore has since associated his exquisite poetry. It was here, 
too, on the banks of Loch Con," that Mr. Hardiman took down 
some of the sweetest sj^ecimens to be found in his collection of 
Ii'ish minstrelsy. It was no wonder. The name of Carolan, who 

^^ See his "Ancient Music of Ireland. "" Index. 

^' See Harditnan's • Irish Minstrelsy. "' vol. i.. page ^341. 



Most Rev, John MacHalc, D,D. 685 

frequented the district, ^vas yet familiar with the older natives of 
the valley of Nephin, and in no ^Dortion of Ireland did his soul- 
insj^iriting airs find more tuneful voices than were there heard 
artlessly pouring tliem forth amidst the solitude of the listening 
mountains. 

Of the legends of Ireland, both oral and written, the people 
were not less retentive than of the songs of their bards. I knew 
myself some who, though they could not at all read English, read 
compositions in the Irish language with great fluency, and even of 
those who were not instructed to read, many could recite the 
Ossianic poems with amazing accuracy. While Macpherson was 
exhausting his ingenuity in breaking up those ancient poems and 
constructing an elaborate system of literary fraud out of their frag- 
ments, there were thousands in Ireland, and especially in Glyn- 
l^epliin, who possessed those ancient Irish treasures of Ossian in 
all their genuine integrity, and whose depositions, could their depo- 
sitions be heard, would have unveiled the huge imposture. There 
is scarcely a mountain, or rock, or river in Ireland that is not in 
some way associated with the name of Fion and his followers. On 
the highest peak of Nephin is still visible an immense cairne of 
laro-e and loose stones called ^^ Lead Fionn,^^ or Fion's monument. 
Some fanciful etymologists are disposed to trace the name of 
Nephin, or Nefin, to the chief of the Fiana, insisting that it means 
Neamh-Fionn, as Olympus was the seat of the j)agan divinities. 
But though the monument just alluded to may give weight to this 
opinion, the authority of Duald Mac Firbis is opposed to them, 
Aemhthin being, according to this learned antiquarian, its pure 
and primitive orthography. The circumstance of Gol, one of the 
most celebrated of those military champions belonging to this 
province, may well account for their intimate connection with our 
scenery ; and as the Fiana were supposed to have been frequent 
and familiar visitors in those regions, it is no wonder that their 
superior quality would have drawn their attention to the waters 
of this fountain. The Latin and Irish lines with which I have 
jorefaced this letter are inscribed on a stone slab, an appro2:)riate 
and significant ornament of this ancient fountain, from which are 
continually gushing its classic or legendary waters. 

From the disastrous period of the wars of Cromwell few or none 
of the Bishops of Killala, to the time of my two immediate prede- 
cessors, had a permanent residence in the diocese. Doctor Waldron, 



686 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

my lamented j^redecessor of pious memory, and Docror Bellew filled 
up near the last half centiuy of that dreary inteiTal.'' The notices 
of the lives of the bishoj)s of the preceding portion are but scanty — 
nay. it would be difficult to supply some considerable chasms with 
their yery names. This has been a misfortune not pectiliar to the 
diocese of Killala, The churches of Ireland shared in the same 
calamity. It is to be hoped, however, that, whilst the material 
edifices which they erected have been desti'oyed or effaced, their 
names are written in the more valuable records of the Book of Life. 
Even of the bishops antecedent to that period the catalogue is im- 
perfect. Duald Mac Fii'bis, whom I have already quoted, has pre- 
served the names of seven bishops of the Mac Celes,^^ who flotirished 
between the twelfth and thirteenth centtiries. To such annalists as 
the Four Masters and the authors of the ••'Book of Lecan," etc., we 
are indebted for such fragments of ecclesiastical history as survived 
the wreck of violence and of time. I indulged a hope, when first I 
went to the Eternal City, to be able to trace back the unbroken 
stem of oiu' episco^^al succession, and, thi-ough it, many stibordinate 
ecclesiastical branches. But even there the task became difficult, if 
not hopeless. It is some consolation that this diocese has supplied 
some of those who have been most successful in illustrating the 
annals of Ireland. The * ' Book of Lecan ** is prized by every scholar 
as one of the most valuable of oui" records, and the name of Mac 
Eirbis ranks among those great benefactors who, in times of diffi- 
culty and darkness, cast a gleam of sj^lendor over the dechning 
literature of their country. 

»J* JoHX, Bishop of T\ttt.at.4, 



LETTEK TO LORD JOEZS" RUSSELL. 

Si. Jaklath's, Tuam, August 21, 184^ 

Mr LoED : The brief interval that has elapsed since I found it 

my duty to address your Lordship on the fiightf ul prospects of the 

potato crop has, I am sony to say, more than realized our worst 

and most desponding anticipations. The failure — nay, the utter, 

^* The nam es of their immediate predecessors ■were. Erwin. Skerret. Philips, Mac Don- 
nefl, of "whom the last, or most remote in the series, is here still recollected by some of 
the old and patriarchal natires. 

" See the " Hi Fiana," one of the last volumes published by the ArchsBological Society. 
The learned translator, Mr. John ODonovan, does great justice to the memory of Duald 
Mae Firbis. who earned the encomiums of OFlaghertv and Charles O'Connor. 



J/::: .-.:'. ^oAn MacHak, DD. 6S7 

the general, and undeniable destraction of that crop, the only sup- 
port of millionc of human beings — is now a subject of irrefutable 
notoriety, and the only subject of doubt or speculation is, what 
may be the short period within whica the celerity of the potato-rot 
will work its entire annihilation. This is a tremendous crisis to 
contemplaie. It has had already the effect of unnerving the 
courage of the people. Something akin to a feeling of despair has 
fallen on them, and, like mariners becalmed in the midst of the 
ocean, whc^e provisions are gone, whilst they are many days' voyage 
from any shore, they look forward through the terrible period of 
j^n entire year without hope from the ordinaij resources of an 
abundant harvest. It is a prospect at which humanity sickens to 
see the jieople's hopes thus entirely frustrated, and the period which 
.-enerally consoled them for the priTations of the preceding sum- 
mer turned into a season of sorrow and despair. 

It is, no doubt, a chastisement of the Almighty, and it is the 
duty of us all to bow in submi^on to the chastening dispensations 
of a just God, and acknowledge the divine power by which we . ~ 
stricken. Yet, feir from sinkiTicr into apathy, we are all bound : 
redoubled exertion, and our guilt wiH be only aggravated if we fail 
to administer relief to a perishing nation. I am rejoiced to find 
that the report of the late Parliamentary debate r^arding the ap- 
proaching famine furnishes some £aint hope to the people. It is, 
howeTer, but a faint hope, for if the measures for our relief were to 
be restricted to the Totes already pa^ed, they would prove utterly 
powerless in arerting the threatened calamity. I will not for the 
present dweU on the delays and embarra,^ment3 which must render 
a portion of the projected relief utterly unavailing. I merely con- 
tent myself with acknowledging that those rotes, such as they were, 
proved the awful truth of the approaching &mine as well as a cer- 
lain degree of sympathy for those who are its threatened victims. 

But allow me respectfuDy to impress on your Lordship that hun- 
ger and starvation are already at the doors of hundreds of thou- 
sands, and that an enemy like tl:i? "^HT r. t be subdued by distant 
and doubtful measures of rtliez. Z_ I .tisii Empire boasts, and 
with justice, of its measurde^ resources. Xow is an opportitnity 
of exhibiting as well the extent of its humanity as of its resources. 
And what is the available sum that has been voted by the muni- 
ficence of Parliament to avert the starvation of millions ? Fifty 
thousand pounds ! Ten placemen partition between them a larger 



688 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

portion of the public money. Let it not be siiid tlitit tliey lire as 
YtiluLible in the scale of humanity, or even of policy, as three mil- 
lions of indnstrions inhabitants. Fifty thousand pounds for a 
starving jDeople I It is not many years ago since four times the sum 
was squandered on the pageant of a king's coronation. Fifty thou- 
sand pounds ! It is still fresh in our memory when a few persons 
were allowed twenty times that amount — a million of money — from 
the ^oublic purse to sustain an artificial status in society, and yet 
but the twentieth portion given to that body to keejD up their rank 
is to be doled out to keep multitudes who are the sinews of society 
from perishing. Your Lordship does not forget when twenty mil- 
lions were heaped out from the public treasury to give liberty to 
the negroes of the West Indies, a liberty which your political op- 
ponents accuse you of jeopardizing by your recent measures regard- 
ing sugar. And are the lives of the people of Ireland so much de- 
preciated in value below the liberties of the negro Indians that but 
fifty thousand pounds — the four- hundredth part of the sum allotted 
to the redemption of tlie former from slavery — is to be given for 
rescuing the latter from certain death ? One hundred thousand 
pounds are voted for infidel colleges condemned by the bishops, 
priests, and people of Ireland ; and while a double sum is wasted 
on an object that will only poison the minds of the people, and sub- 
sidize apostate professors to do the work, will half the sum be 
deemed sufficient for saving an entire people from starvation ? 

I have not time, nor have I any inclination — it is too melancholy 
a topic — to expose the heartlessness of the sordid and unfeeling- 
economists who complain that Irish misery is to be relieved out of 
the English exchequer. No ; we only demand that Irish misery 
should be relieved out of the Irish resources that are profusely and 
unfeelingly squandered in England. If there be a real union be- 
tween England and Ireland, it should have the reciprocal conditions 
of all such covenants — mutual benefits and mutual burdens. We 
want, then, no English money. We want but a fair share of the 
other portion of our produce, I mean the wheaten one, with which 
Ireland teems in abundance. Had we our Parliament at this mo- 
ment, it is certain we should be free from the apjDrehensions of star- 
vation. It Avould infallibly sup23ly us with plenty out of an Irish 
exchequer. We have, then, a right to demand, on the score of the 
Union, without being beholden to England, that support in our 
destitution which our own Parliament, if not merged in that of 



Most Rev. John MacHale, D.D, 689 

Great Britain, would not fail to grant. If, then, those economists 
persist in a course of political casuistry as wrong in principle as it 
is inhuman in practice, let them, even now at the eleventh hour, 
vote back our Parliament, and we will dispense with their votes of 
money. There is no evasion from either alternative ; the lives of 
millions are not to be sacrificed to the sordid speculations of a few 
political economists. 

I have the honor to be your obedient servant, 

*f« John, Ahchbishop of Tuam. 



MRS. J. SADLIER. 

" Among Irish ladies, there is in America one whom all true Irishmen delight 
to honor."— T. D. McGee. 

"A lady whose name is a household word in Catholic families." — "Popular 

HiSTOEY OF THE CaTHOLIC ChURCH IX THE UNITED STATES." 

MAEY A. SAD LIE R was born on the last day of the year 1820 
in Cootehill. a considerable town of the county of Cavan, 
Ireland, situated about half a mile fi'om the banks of the silvery 
Erne, where that river divides the counties of Cavan and Monaghan. 
Her father, Erancis Madden, was widely known and much respected 
as an energetic and intelligent trader, whose mercantile transactions 
were long attended with marked success ; but a series of losses in a 
time of severe financial depression reduced the family to a state of 
comparative indigence, and the husband and father soon sank under 
the pecuniary difficulties that pressed uj^on him, all the more galling 
to him inasmuch as he was a man of the strictest integrity, endowed 
with the highest sense of honor, and, at the same time, with keen 
susceptibility. 

In August, 1844, a few weeks after Mr. Madden's death, his 
eldest daughter, the subject of this sketch, emigrated to Canada 
with a brother some years younger than herself. In Montreal she 
made the acquaintance of Mr. James Sadlier, the junior partner of 
the well-known firm of D. & J. Sadlier & Co., Cathohc luiblishers, 
and in Xovember, 1846, Miss Mary Anne Madden became his wife. 

James Sadlier was then the manager of the Montreal branch of 
the business of the firm, and in that city he and his wife continued 
to reside till May, 1860, when, with their children, they removed to 
Kew York. In September, 1869, Mr. James Sadlier died, leaving 
his widow the care of a large family, to whom she has since, with 
virtuous and motherly afiection, sedulously devoted herself, gradually 
withdrawins', as far as the duties of her state will allow, from 
general society into the quiet shades of domestic life. 

Mrs. Sadlier is one of the most gifted, industrious, and successful 
writers of tliis nineteenth century. Mighty has been her pen in the 

690 



Mrs. J. Sadlter, 691 

cause of truth, and faith, and virtue. She was no more than 
eighteen years of age when she began her long literary career as an 
occasional contributor to La Belle Assemllee, a London magazine. 
In Canada she contributed both before and after her marriage to the 
Literary Garland, issued monthly at Montreal. During the years 
intervening between 1847 and 1874, Mrs. Sadlier was connected in one 
way or another with several prominent Catholic journals, especially 
the New York Tablet, New York Freemarts Journal, Boston Pilot, 
and Montreal True Witness. 

During this time, and simultaneously with her labors as a Catho- 
lic journalist, Mrs. Sadlier wrote and translated from the French 
numerous works on various subjects, most of them, especially the 
translations, being of a religious character. 

Her original works, nearly all of fiction, form a class peculiar to 
themselves, having each a special object in view, bearing on the 
moral and religious well-being of her fellow-Catholics, especially 
those of the Irish race, to which it is this gifted and virtuous lady's 
pride to belong by sympathy as well as by blood.^ 

In the dedication of his ^^ History of Ireland" to Mrs. Sadlier, the 
Hon. Thomas D'Arcy McGee truly says : 

•^ With the latest chapter in ^Doint of time of our history — the 
chapter of the exodus — your name must be for ever associated. No 
one has known how to paint to the new age and the New World the 
household virtues, the religious graces, the manly and womanly 
cliaracteristics of this ancient people like you, my friend.'' 

Of '' The Blakes and Flanagans," the venerable Dr. de Char- 
bonnel, then Bishop of Toronto, said ^' that it was written with a j^en 
of gold"; and from the pulpit, the same noble prelate declared tliat 
^^he hoped to see the book circulated by the hundred thousand." 
Indeed, all Mrs. Sadlier's works are worthy of the highest praise. 
The ''Confederate Chief tains " is, perhaps, her masterpiece. It is 
a vivid picture of one of the most stirring periods in Irish history, 
and exhibits Mrs. Sadlier as a writer of rich imagination, great 
power, and extensive erudition. She is the author of over fifty 
volumes, original and translated. The following are the dates of 
publication of her chief original works: ''Willy Burke" (about 
1850) ; "Alice Riordan" (about 1852); "New Lights; or. Life in 
Gal way" (1853); "The Blakes and Flanagans'^ (1855); "The 

^The foregoing sketch, with some slight alterations, is taken from our " Popular His- 
~tory of the Catholic Church in the United States." 



692 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

Confederate Chieftains" (1859); ^^Confessions of an Apostate'* 
(1859) ; "Bessy Conwa}^" (1861) ; " Old and IS^ew ; or, Taste verms 
Fashion" (1861); "The Hermit of the Eock" (1863); "Con 
O'Regan" (1864); "Old House by the Boyne" (1865); "'Aunt 
Honor's Keepsake" (1866) ; "The Heiress of Kilorgan" (1867); 
"MacCarthy More" (1868); "Maureen Dhu, a Tale of the Clad- 
dagh"(1869). 



SELECTIONS FROM THE WORKS OF MRS. SADLIER. 
IRELAoS^D BY MOO:S'LIGHT. 

'Tis night in far-off Ireland, the land I love the best, 

The golden sun has yanish'd from the highest mountain-crest, 

The lady-moon is rising o'er hill and tower and town. 

And the stars, like peeping angels, from heaven's dome look down- 

The lone isle sleeps in beauty beneath the mellow ray , 
Her lovely features fairer far than in the blaze of day ; 
Yet 'tis not on the beauty of wood or vale or stream 
That mem'ry dwells the fondest in yonder silvery beam. 

Those scenes of beauty change not, they death and time defy, 
We see them as our fathers saw in ages long gone by ; 
The valleys are as smiling, the mountains are as grand 
As when Milesius landed with his brave Biscayan band. 

Not so the glorious works of art that gem the island o'er. 
From far Dunlure on Antrim's coast to Beara's classic shore ; 
From old Dungiven's abbey-walls' to Cashel's sacred fane. 
From Devenish to Clonmacnoise, from Arran to Loch Lena.' 

The moonbeam rests so lovingly on wrecks of human art. 
As tho* the radiant queen of night throbbed with a human heart ; 
She spreads her mantle o'er them thro' the watches of the night. 
And gilds their desolation with more than earthly light 

2 Built by the O'Kanes in the year 1100. 

3 The ancient name of the Lakes of Killamey. Loch Lene in the Irish tongue means 
Uie lake of leaminij. no less than three abbeys being located on its banks ; of these Irre- 
lagh was quite famous, but not so famous as Mucruss on the little isle of Innisfallen. 



M7's. y. Sad her. 693 

And the cold bright stars look brighter o'er the empire of decay, 
The monuments of ages gone and races pass'd away ; 
The walls uprear'd in ancient times when earth was in her prime. 
Those stern mementoes of the past and trophies of old Time. 

A mystic scroll is spread to-night beneath that Irish sky, 

A record of the ages as they roll'd in grandeur by ; 

The weird magician, Time, hath traced in earth and wood and 

stone 
The prints of rites and races on earth no longer known. 

The barrow and the cairn, the lone sepulchral heap, 
Where the Firbolg and the Danaan in pagan darkness sleep. 
The cromleach where the Druid offer'd sacrifice of old. 
And the spectral pillar-tower, lone watcher of the wold ! 

The hoAca of patriarchal times, the liee^j of after days. 

And the stately battlemented pile which artists love to praise, 

Lismore's proud halls, and Trim's dark towers, and the Castle by 

the Xore,* 
Where belted earl and stately chief and proud dame dwelt of yore. 

The castles of our chieftains on every beethng steep ; 

The abbeys which they founded and beneath whose walls they slee]3 ; 

The temples which they raised to God, where erst they knelt and 

praVd 
When buckling on their armor to draw the vengeful blade 

Si3eak softly in the moonlight of bloody feuds and scars. 

Where knight and noble rest in peace beneath those glittering 

stars — 
Pitzgeralds and McCarthys, O'Xeills, and Butlers, too, 
All sleep far down in Irish earth beneath yon heaven of blue. 

If fair Mucruss and Holy Cross and Cashel of the Kings 
Were built by Irish princes as monumental things, 
The Xormans left us Mellif out, Athenry, Adare, 
Youghal and Howth and many a fane as classic and as fair. 

< KLLkenny Castle, the principal residence of the Marquis of Ormond. 



694 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

But far in Western Ireland, a region famed in song. 
One lonely pile arrests the eye — the royal walls of Cong; 
There at this solemn midnight hour a spirit sits and weeps 
Where Koderick, last of Irish kings, in dull oblivion sleeps. 

Isle of Fate ! storied isle ! isle of ancient fame ! 
Old ocean wears no nobler gaud, earth hath no nobler name ; 
Thy mournful beauty, ever young, still wakes the poet's dream. 
Thou fairest isle that gems the wave or woos the midnight beam ! 

New York, December, 1861. 



HOME MEMORIES. 

Whek the sunshine is lost in the mists of the gloaming. 

And night-shadows darken on mountain and lea, 
Then the lone heart takes wings and away it goes roaming 

To regions far over the billowy sea. 
The present is lost, and the past is before me 

All vivid and bright in the radiance of morn, 
And fancy brings back the soft spell that hung o'er me 

When youth's brilliant hopes of life's freshness were born. 

In that hour I am back where my gay childhood fleeted. 

When life's cares and life's sorrows were scarce seen in dreams^ 
When hope's dulcet tones, by the echoes repeated. 

Illumed passing hours in fancy's bright beams. 
The scenes that I love and the friends fondly cherish'd 

Arise in their warm hues to gladden my sight ; 
The scenes that are far and the friends that have perish'd 

Are near and around me all life-like and bright. 

The blue changeful sky of dear Erin is o'er me, 

The green hills of Cavan rise fair on my view. 
The Erne is winding in brightness before me. 

And Cootehill's '^ shady arbors " their verdure renew. 
The hills and the dales famed in song and in story, 

Where Breffny's proud banner was flung to the gale. 
Where O'Reilly's bold borderers won wreaths of glory 

In guarding the North from the raids of the Pale. 



Mrs. y. Sadlier. 



695 



The rath where the fairies kept house in all weather, 

The ring where they danced in the yellow moon's ray, 
The lone bush on the hill-side among the green heather, 

By ^'^ fairy-folk " guarded by night and by day. 
The deep hazel woods where sliillelaglis grew strongest, 

(To teach "the boys" logic at market and fair,) 
Where the lark and the linnet sang loudest and longest, 

And the cuckoo's blithe solo rang clear thro' the air. 

The chapel * I see where my childhood was nourished 

In the faith of my fathers, the old and the true, 
Where religion was honor'd and piety flourished. 

Where virtues were many and vices were few ; 
And kneeling around me are friends, the true-hearted. 

And faces familiar, though now but a dream. 
For many among them have long since departed. 

To dwell in the light of eternity's beam. 

visions of home ! why so fair and so fleeting — 

Why break like the stars on the darkness of night. 
Then fly like the mist from the red dawn retreating, 

And leave the dull day-life no beam of your light ? 
The vision is gone — not a trace is remaining — 

The stern voice of duty is heard at the door. 
The real objects to the unreal chaining 

The spirit whose wing must soar uj^ward no more. 

New York, November 27, 1861. 



SCEKE IJ^ A GALWAY SCHOOL-ROOM. 
[From " Ne-w Lights ; or, Life in Gal way."] 

Just at this moment the carriage stopped in front of the school- 
house, and out came the long, thin visage of Jenkinson at the door, 
then his whole gaunt frame sidled out after it, and with many a 
bow and many a grave smile he Avelcomed his distinguished visitors. 
He was stepping forward to offer his hand to Eleanor, but Sir James 
sprang lightly from his horse, and saying " Excuse me, sir," he 

5 Some of our readers may not be aware that, in the North of Ireland (especially) the 
•word church is only applied to the places of worship appertaining to the " church (for- 
merly) bylaw established.'' 



696 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

gi'acefully assisted the ladies to alight. Jeiikinson was half inclined 
to resent the stranger's interference, bnt when he cast a cursory 
glance over his tall, commanding figure, and marked the dignity of 
his demeanor, he shrank back into himself, muttering, ^^Second 
thousrhts are best." 

'^ Will you be good enough to lead the way into your school-room, 
Mr. Jenkinson ?" said Mrs. Ousely. ''Of course, you are prej^ared 
to admit us ? '' 

"Oh ! certainly, ma'am, certainly ; will you condescend to walk 
this way ? *' 

"So this is the potentate who holds dominion here ?" said the 
baronet to Eleanor in a low voice as they walked in side by side. 

"Yea, verily, this is the righteous, and evangelical, and Popery- 
hating, and Bible-loving instructor of youth, j^laced here as a Hght 
amid darkness," said Eleanor, imitating Jenkinson's own prolix 
verbiage. '' You stare," she added, laughingly, "'but you will soon 
cease to wonder at the superfluity of words wherewith I do eulogize 
our excellent pedagogue. Be silent now, good sir, that you may 
hear, for of a surety Jenkinson is about to hold forth." 

"'Mr. Dalton,'' said he to his usher, a pale, effeminate-looking 
young man — "' Mr. Dalton, the boys have not yet recited their Scrip- 
ture lesson ? " 

" Xo, sir ; they are just preparing it." 

"Very good, Mr. Dalton ; let us have it now. Ladies, will you 
condescend to sit down ? Sir," to Sir James, " will you be pleased 
to take a seat ? " 

The visitors being duly settled in their respective places, the 
fmaster took his station near Mrs. Ousely, and the pale-faced usher 
; stej^i^ed up on a sort of dais and commanded the boys to close their 
books. The order was instantly obeyed, some of the jDoor, starved- 
looking urchins taking a last peep before they closed their Testa- 
ments. 

"'Xow, commence," said Dalton. " The fourteenth chapter and 
first verse of John. Peter O'Malley, you say the fii'st verse." 

Peter did say his verse, and the others followed in turn, until the 
whole of that mysterious chaj)ter was said, some few of the boys 
making sad work of it, but in general they said their verses cor- 
rectly. "When the lesson was ended, Jenkinson turned to his visitors 
with the air of a man who exj^ected a comphment. Mrs. Ousely 
was delighted, and told Mr. Jenkinson that he was doing more to 



21 rs. J, Sad Her. 697 

overthrow Popery than the whole Bible Society and Tract Society 
put together. 

*'• Yon are very good to say so, Mrs. Ousely,'' said Jenkiuson, 
putting on a very modest air. * ' What do you think, sir ? I am 
at a loss, ma'am, for this gentleman's name." 

'•Sir James Trelawney."' 

Jeukinson bowed very low. 

•^ I hope you are pleased with the boys, Sir James ?*' 

•'• They have said their lesson well,'* replied the baronet, some- 
what drily. 

*' Oh I but you must hear them examined in order to judge of the 
progi'ess they have made. Lawi-ence O'SulliYan." 

" Well, sir," said a little chubby-faced boy, about eight years old, 
as he raised himself to a standing posture. 

*'* What is PojDery, Larry ? " 

**' Popery, sir ? "' LaiTy scratched his head, and ke^Dt looking at 
the boy next him, who said something in a low voice. 

•' Popery's the great delu — " — another look at his neighbor — " the 
great delusion, sir ! " 

Larry looked much relieved when the last syllable was out. 

** Very well answered," said Jenkinson. ''Xow, tell us what ^5 
the gi'eat delusion — you, Terence Landrigan ? " 

" It's Popery, sir I " Eleanor and the baronet exchanged smiles. 

'' Very good, indeed. lN"ow, Terence, when youVe done so well, 
just tell us who is Antichrist ! " 

'•' The pope, su* I " 

" Right again I and can you tell me who was Luther ?" 

*' Luther, sir ? Luther was — *' Terence's memory was evidently 
at fault. 

'•' Go on, you blockhead ; who was Luther ?" 

'' The — the — the man of sin, sir I '' 

'' Sit down, sir I" cried Jenkinson, augi'ily. "That's the j^ope 
you mean.'' Eleanor pretended to use her handkerchief, and Sir 
James maliciously said to Mrs. Ousely : ^' What a smart lad he is I 
wonderfully ^vise for his age I " 

^^ Miles O'Callaghan, stand up there." Miles was a tall, thin 
lad of some ten or twelve years old. ''What was the Inquisition, 
Miles?" 

•*' A place where good men and women were tortured and put to 
death for their religion. " 



698 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

" Very good indeed, Miles. And who were these good people ? " 

'* Protestants, sir." 

" Many of them Jews/' said Eleanor in a low voice to Sir James, 
who nodded assent. 

' ^ Eight, Miles, right. And who put them to death and burned 
them up ? " 

^^ Priests and monks, sir." 

'^ Eight again, Miles. "Well, now can you tell me what is 
confession ? " 

^^Yes, sir! it is an humble accusation of one's self — " began 
Miles. 

" What are you saying, you stupid fellow ? " 

^* Why, that's what's in the catechism, sir ! " 

'^Yes, in the priest's catechism," said Jenkinson ; then, raising 
his voice higher, ^^ can't you tell me whafc confession is ? " 

'^ Why, sir, I was tellin' you, an' you wouldn't let me." 

^^ Sit down. John McSweeny ! " 

^^Sir!" 

" Who was Queen Elizabeth ? " 

^^ Ould Harry's daughter, sir." 

^'' Henry the Eighth, you mean," said Jenkinson sternly. 

'^Yesj sir." 

'' What did she do, John ? " 

" She ripped open the priests and cut the heads off o' them, sir, 
an' hunted them out o' the country, sir." 

*^ Hush, John ! " said Dalfcon eagerly ; " that's not the answer, 
you're wrong." 

" Why, that's what I heard my father readin' out of a book about 
her," said John boldly. 

" Put him down to the foot ! " cried Jenkinson, his face purple 
with rage. ^^ It is a hard and a never-ending and an arduous 
task," he added, turning to the visitors, " to get these Eomish chil- 
dren to learn anything." 

^' I do not at all doubt it," replied Eleanor, repressing a smile. 

" Will you allow me to ask the boys a few questions, Mr. Jenkin- 
son?" said Sir James. 

*^ Certainly, sir," returned the schoolmaster, though he and his 
subordinate exchanged looks that showed their minds ill at ease. 
^^ Stand up all of you, children ! " 

The baronet cast a searching glance over the long lines of anxious 



Mrs. y. Sadlier, 699 

little faces before he spoke, and then, selecting those who seemed 
most intelligent, he put a few leading questions on the great truths 
of religion. Alas ! he could get no satisfactory answer, except now 
and then when memory brought back to some of the older boys the 
almost forgotten teaching of the priest. Thus Sir James had asked 
several boys the question, "For what end were we created?" and 
when, at last, the answer came, " To know, love, and serve God, 
and to be happy with him for ever," the boy concluded with, 
"That's what our own catechism says, sir." 

" And it says right, my boy," said Sir James, patting him on 
the head. " That will do, Mr. Jenkinson; we are but trespassing 
on your time." 



THE BATTLE OF BEKBURB, 1646." 
[Prom "The Confederate Chieftains."] 

As Owen Roe O'Neill rode slowly along the line, he was joined by 
Bishop McMahon, who had been surveying the ground and the 
different arrangements with the eye of a veteran soldier. " Owen," 
said he, " our position here is every way admirable, but how shall 
we manage the sun yonder, shining full in our eyes ? " 

" I have thought of that, my Lord," said the general with an 
anxious glance at the too brilliant luminary; " would the enemy 
but keep quiet for a few hours, all were well ; but an they will at- 
tack us, we must e'en keep them in play till the sun begins to de- 
scend. How now, Rory ? " He was passing the Fermanagh men at 
the moment, and the young chief stepped forward, indicating by a 
sign that he wished to speak. 

"I fear for my poor uncle," said Rory; "he hath made up his 
mind that he is to die this day, but not till he hath worked out some 
conceit of his own, the which I take to be so perilous that it may 
well end as he forebodes. Could you not send him to keep guard 
in the wood yonder ? " 

" An he did, too," said Lorcan at his elbow, " I would not go. 
Others can keep guard in the wood as well as I, and I might there- 

« The Irish in this battle numbered 5,000 infantry and 500 cavalry, and were command- 
ed by the celebrated General Owen Roe O Neill. The Scotch and English, commanded 
by General Monroe, numbered 7,000 infantry and 800 cavalry.— See MacGeoghegan's 
"History of Ireland." 



joo TJie Prose and Poetjy of Ireland, 

by lose my chance of revenge. For shame, Eory, plotting against 
your old uncle I " 

•'•' But, uncle, you do not knoTv — " 

'*' Lorcan, it were a post of honor, an" you knew but all." 

'•' Small thanks to either of you," said the old man snappishly ; 
*• I know enough to take care of my own honor. In the van I'll be, 
I tell you that : it wasn't to hide myseK in the wood that I got the 
sififht I did this mornins:.'''' 

■■' Steady, men, steady I " cried Owen O'Xeill, '' they are advancing 
rapidly. Keejo your ground : obey your officers, they know my plans." 

" The cavahy ! the cavalry I oh I the hell-hounds, a warm wel- 
come to them ! " 

On they went. Lord Ardes at their head, theii' terrible claymores 
flashing in the sun. Heaven helj) the Irish kern, with only their 
barradhs and glib-locks to j^rotect then* heads I Yet firm as a rock 
they stand, with their j^ikes and bayonets firmly clasped, prepared 
to resist the shock. But on and still on they come, Mom'oe's bloody 
trooi^ers. Hurrah I midway on their course they are greeted by a 
scathing fii'e from the bushes on either side ; they reel ; they attempt 
to rallv ; Lord Ai'des waves his sabre and urs^es them on ; thick 
and fast comes the deadly volley from the brushwood ; down go the 
Scots one after one, man and horse rolling over down the hill-side. 
A panic seized the troopers, and their officers losing all command of 
them, they hastily made their retreat to the sheltering columns of 
the army. Loud and long was the laugh that j^ealed after them, 
and Owen Eoe, riding once more to the front, cried out : 

" Bravely done, my faithful Eapparees I I knew it was in you I" 

'Olethinks Lord Ardes will scarcely try it again, Owen," said 
Phelim, coming fonvard at a galloj^. *^ TVho may we thank for 
that ?" 

'' Captain Donogh and his brave comrades," said Owen, '^ they are 
the boys for the scrogs and bushes I But back — bcick, Phelim ; as I 
live they're opening a cannonade ! Heavens I what a peal I Spare, 
Lord I spare our brave fellows ! Ha I our Lady shields us weU." 

Again the shout of mirthful mockery burst from the Irish ranks 
as shot after shot boomed in quick succession from the enemy^s 
^ms without so much as harmino^ a sinsfle man.'' 

' Rinuccini and other good authorities state that in this first cannonade of the Scotch 
but one man of the Irish was slain, owing to the admirable disposition of the army by 
the skill and foresight of Owen Roe. 



Mrs. y. Sadlier. 701 



a 



Oh! the darling were you, Owen Eoe!'' ''The Lord be 
praised I isn't he the wonderful man ? *' '^ See that, now I " 

Amid these exulting shouts and cries of admiration, and the dull 
roar of the heavy cannonade, a cry of anguish was heard so loud 
and shrill and piercing that every eye was turned in the direction 
of the altar whence the sound appeared to proceed. Few could 
see what was going on there, but those that did found it hard to 
keep their places in the ranks in obedience to the stern voice of 
the general calling out at the moment : 

'SStir not a man of you, on pain of death !" 

But the cry went round, "Poor Malachy na Soggarth !'* and 
soon it reached the McMahons, and the bishop himself was quickly 
on his knees beside the bleeding body of his humble friend, for 
Malachy indeed it was. The poor fellow, in making some new 
arrangement about the altar preparatory to the grand celebration of 
thanksgiving to which he looked forward, had incautiously ascend- 
ed the steps, and, thus exposed, became a mark for some deadly 
shot, the Puritans, doubtless, taking him for a priest. Fitting 
death surely for Malachy na Soggarth ! 

Judith and Emmeline were already on the spot, supporting the 
inanimate form between them and endeavoring to stanch the blood 
that flowed profusely from the breast. 

"My poor, poor Malachy !" said the bishop in a choking voice 
as he leaned over him; " is there life in him, think you ?" Lay- 
ing his hand on the poor fellow's heart, he shook his head mourn- 
fully. " Alas I alas I Malachy," he murmured, while the tears 
streamed from his eyes, " it will never beat again I God rest your 
soul in peace I Let us lay him here on the steps, my daughters, 
till we see how the battle goes. Your lives are not safe here, and 
Zmust away where duty calls.'* 

"But can we do nothing for him, my lord ?" said Judith anx- 
iously. 

" Xo thing, nothing I my poor Malachy is beyond mortal 
succor ! " 

"' For heaven's sake, Judith, let us go ! " said the more limid 
Emmeline, shrinking with terror as a cannon-ball raked up the 
ground "within a few feet and went bounding away towards the 
w^ood. , 

"She is right," said the bishop; "haste away, I implore — I 
command von ! " and tlien tenderlv he laid the bodv of his late 



702 The Prose and Poet7y of Ireland. 

sacristan on the lowest step of the altar, saying : " Rest you there, 
Malachy, till I return, if return I do or may." 

By this time Angus and some others of the Rapparees were 
hurrying the ladies back to the wood, and seeing Malachy's body, 
they would have taken it too, but hearing that the bishop had 
placed it where it was, they reluctantly left it behind. 

" Poor Malachy na Soggarth ! are you the first ? " sighed Angus. 
^^ God knows who will be the last; you'll be well revenged, any- 
how, before night ! " 

Back to the post of danger flew the bishop, and he found the 
Clan McMahon busily engaged in a skirmish with the enemy, whilst 
Owen Roe himself and young Rory Maguire were charging with 
well-feigned impetuosity ; indeed, all along the line the Irish forces 
were more or less in action, now advancing, now retiring, yet still 
maintaining their ground with all the disadvantages of a strong 
sun shining full in their faces, and the wind blowing the smoke of 
the Scottish guns right against them. Still, they had the counter 
advantage of position, posted as they were between two hills with 
the wood on their rear, whereas the Puritans were hemmed in be- 
tween the river and a wide-spreading bog. Little recked they, in 
their pride, that the saffron-coated kern held the hill-sides above 
them ; were they not delivered unto them ? yea, even the elements 
lent their aid against them, and the sun himself struck them, as it 
were, with blindness. Verily, God's judgments were upon those idol- 
aters, and their strength must wither like grass before the wrathful 
eyes of the elect. 

With this impression on their minds, the Puritan generals made 
charge after charge on the Irish columns, now with horse, now 
with foot, and again with both. Somehow the ^' idolaters " were 
not quite so easily overcome as they in their fanatical faith had be- 
lieved. It is true they seemed tu fight rather shy, as though fear- 
ing to come in too close contact with the swords of the righteous, 
but with the agility of mountain-goats and the cunning of foxes 
they managed to elude the furious onslaught of the Puritans. 
Truly was Owen Roe styled the Fabius of his country, for such 
generalship has rarely been displayed in any age, such consummate 
skill and prudence, ls the field of Benburb witnessed that day. 

It was a strange and curious sight to see the way in which Owen 
kept Monroe and his legions in j)lay for full four hours on the 
bright June day, until the patience of his own jieople was all but 



Mrs. J, Sadlier. 703 

worn out, and the Scotch, who had beeu fighting with all their 
might, well-iiigh exhausted and fi-enzied with disappointment. 

Monroe's shrill voice was heard full often urging on his officers, 
and O'XeiU's made, as it were, a mocking echo. It was **' Cun- 
ningham forward on the right." ''^McMahonto the front," '•' Hamil- 
ton advance,'* ** 0"Eeillj forward." 

Much srrumblino: was heard amonsrst the O'Rourkes on findino; 
that the O'Reillys, not they, were in front of the Hamiltons, and 
Sir Phehm O'Xeill cotild hardly restrain his indignation that he 
was left out of the count and reduced to a state of inactivity, which 
he deemed a srrievous wronsr. Owen Eoe smiled as he heard these 
complaints, and told them all to have patience. •'• Wait till you 
can see them,** said he, "and then, men of Erin, you may, per- 
chance, have your way." 

It was fortunate that the army had such boundless confidence in 
the wisdom of its general, for there lived not the man on Irish 
ground, save Owen himself, that could have kept the clans back so 
long, and to rush headlong on the Scotch, with the dazzling sun 
and the drifting smoke striking ftdl upon them, woidd have been 
certain destrucrion. 

Old Lorcan Maguire was on thorns. Although perfectly compre- 
hending the cause of Owen's holding back, he still could not re- 
strain his impatience, and many an angiy glance he gave through 
his closed eyelids at the provokingly bright sun that would not let 
him see what most he wished to see. 

*•' Eory,*' said he at last to his nephew, ^'your eyes are younger 
and stronger than mine, cau you tell me whereabouts Blavuey is ; 
they say he's with the cavalry.** 

*' Why, to be sure, uncle I there he is with his troop on the left 
flank, close by Hamilton's dragoons, I have my eye on him, never 
fear." 

•• That's well, my boy, that's well : God bless you, Roiy ! ** A 
ball whizzed past the old man's ear at the moment, but so wrapj^ed 
was he in his own thoughts that he heeded it not- althoucrh it drew 
from his nephew an exclamation of alarm. A very short time after 
that a stir was perceptible amongst the Irish. The sun was at 
length behind them, and the wind suddenly changiug, the smoke of 
all the artillery was blown in the faces of the Scotch, stunning them 
with the effect of a hard blow. 

By some rapid evolutions, made at the moment by the orders of 



704 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

Owen Roe, Hamilton of Leitrim found himself faced by his neigh- 
bors, the O'Rourkes, amongst whom were conspicnons the square- 
bnilt, athletic fignre of Manus, and the stately form of his chief. 
Blavney was likewise confronted by his old acquaintances, the Mc- 
Mahons of Uriel, headed by their own chief, whilst Sir Robert 
Stewart and his bloody troopers stood face to face with the stem 
O'Kanes of the mountains. All these changes were effected with 
the quickness almost of thought, and then Owen Roe, survepng 
with that jDiercing eye of his the confusion prcTailing amongst the 
Scotch, cast another glance along his own line to see that all was to 
his liking. He smiled, and miu'mnred softly to himself : *• Xow may 
Christ and his Blessed Mother be our stay I " 

Ay I the moment is come at last ; the Scotch are confused and be- 
wildered : they cannot fight, it would seem, as the Iiish did, through 
sun and smoke. Their generals see the danger, they see the ominous 
movements oroino: on amono^st the Confederates, thev use eyerv ef- 
fort to restore order in their own ranks, and in part they succeed. 
With oaths and curses Hamilton forces his men into line ; Monroe 
conjures, commands his stem Scottish veterans to stand fast for 
the dear sake of the Covenant, and smite the reprobate with the 
strong arm of righteousness. 

But the Irish — how eagerly they watch their general's eye I how 
bitterly they laugh as the blasphemous exhortations of the Scottish, 
generals reach their ears I 

'* A hnndred years of wrong shall mate their vengeance strong ! 
A hundred years of outrage, and blasphemy, and broiL 
Since the spirit of Unrest sent forth on her behest 
The apostate and the Puritan to do their work of spoil.'* 

By a sudden impulse, as it were, Owen Roe threw himself into 
the midst of his army, and, pointing to the enemy, he cried : 

'•' Soldiers I voti have vour wav. Thev have sun and wind against 
them now, as we had before. They waver akeady, though Monroe 
is tryuig to rally for another charge. Strike home now for God and 
cotmtry, for martyred j^riests and slaughtered kin, for your women's 
nameless wrongs I The Hamiltons are tliere. Remember Tieman 
O'Rourke and the sacred martyr of Sligo I Remember all — aU, my 
brothers — remember all the past I Think of the future that awaits 
your country if you are beaten here to-day I But beaten you can- 
not be. You have purified your souls in the laver of penance, you 



Mrs. J. Sad Her. yo^ 

have received the blessing sent you from the Vicegerent of Christ ; 
you are strong, your cause is holy, you must and shall conquer ! 
On, then — on, to death or victory I I myself will lead the way, 
and let him that fails to follow remember that he abandons his 
general I '' 

'•' Cursed be he who does I" cried Sir Phelim ; '' 1*11 take care it 
shan't be me T' 

He threw himself from Brieu's back as he spoke, and flung the 
bridle to Shamus, who was close by his side. Every colonel of the 
army instantly followed his example, amid the apj^laudiug clieers of 
the men, and then, waving their broadswords on high, down thev 
dashed on the astonished Puritans, their men boimding after and 
around them with the terrible force of the cataract. Once more 
the cry of " Lamh dearg aboo I" ^ awoke the echoes of the woods, 
strikinof terror to the hearts of the murderous crew who had so lono- 
revelled in the blood of the Irish. In vain did Monroe, seeino- the 
approaching avalanche, order Lord Ardes with a squadi'on of horse 
to clear a way through the Irish foot. In vain I in vain his cavalry 
met the rushing wartide, and the pikes of the kern, jDiercing the 
breasts of the horses, drove them back, maddened and affrighted, on 
the ranks of their own infantry, whose bayonets met them in the rear. 
Death I death I death and fury I where is that haughty squadron 
now? Annihilated, save a few oflB.cers who were taken prisoners. Lord 
Ardes himself amongst the number. Xow, Hamilton and Blavney, 
Stewart and Montgomery, look to it — look to the doom that is on 
you I Strong, fierce, and j^owerful this day are those whom so long 
vou have hunted as beasts. The O'Eourkes are in vour midst, with 
their terrible pikes and battle-axes ; the McGuires and McMahons 
are flaying you down as though each had the strength of a hundred 
men ; the O'Kanes are dnmk with joy as Stewart's men go down in 
heaps beneath their crushing blows, and the wild " aboo I" is ringing 
high over all the sounds of fight, as the clansmen follow their 
valiant chiefs on and on through the dread aiTav, shoutinsf as thev 
go the words of doom. Oh I the might that was in Owen's arm as, 
fii'st of all, he clove his way to the heart of the Scottish host, his 
jolume of green and white passing on like a meteor thi'ough the 
battle-cloud ! And close behind him followed Sir Phelim, dealing 
death on every side, and smiling giimly at the dull inertness of the 
Scotch ; for it seemed as though a spell had fallen on them aU, and 

8 " The Red Hand for ever :" 



7o6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

the strength had left their arms. Here and there, however, the 
generals were making an effort to rally them, reminding them that 
retreat was death. Once the savage Hamilton encountered the 
Knight of Kinnard, and, leaning forward in his saddle, aimed such 
a deadly thrust at his heart that stout Phelim's life were not worth 
a straw had not a pike at the moment pierced Hamilton's horse 
through the head, and he fell to the ground with his rider under. 
It was the faithful Shamus who had dealt the blow that saved his 
chieftain's life ; but he well-nigh paid the penalty of his own, for 
some three or four of Hamilton's men, believing their leader slain, 
attacked the brave fellow with their ponderous axes. 

^' Come on, you hell-hounds ; I'm ready for you ! " cried Sha- 
mus, with a flourish of his trusty pike, while Sir Phelim, turning 
at the sound of his voice, clove the foremost of his assailants well- 
nigh to the belt. Alas ! the tide of battle, rushing on, speedily car- 
ried away the knight, and left Shamus still wedged in with the 
wrathful followers of Hamilton. Forgotten as he thought himself 
by his friends, O'Hagan faced his enemies with the courage of a 
lion, and two of them fell beneath his stalwart arm, but the third, 
a gigantic fellow, maddened by the fate of his comrades, grasped 
his weapon with both hands and aimed such a blow at his opponent's 
head as would have shattered a bar of iron. Great God ! what 
means that piercing scream ? Who is it that rushes between, re- 
ceives the impending stroke, and saves the life of Shamus ? It is 
Angus Dhu whom Shamus catches in his a'rms with a cry of an- 
guish, and, forgetful of his own danger, of all save the friend who 
has given his life for him, he makes his way with maniac force 
through the thick of the fight, brandishing his bloody pike in one 
hand, while the other arm clasps to his breast the bleeding form of 
the gallant young Eapparee, to all apjoearance dead. By the time 
he laid his sorrowful burden on the sward beside the altar, the gay 
gTeen jacket, ever worn so jauntily, was wet with the life-blood from 
the faithful heart, yet the youth opened his eyes for a moment, and 
.smiled as he saw Shamus. He murmured faintly : 

^^Aileen has got the ring, Shamus ! — the Lady Judith will find 
it — next the heart — that loved you best — she will tell you — 
all " 

^^ Judith is here," said a soft voice close at hand. ^^ But, merci- 
ful God ! Angus — Aileen, my child ! is it you'^ Oh ! woe ! woe ! 
was it for this you left me ?" 



Mrs. J. Sadlier. 707 

" What else would take me — dearest lady I — but to watcli — over 
Shamus ? I know it was wrong — to leave my post — ask the gene- 
ral's joardon for me — he'll not refuse it to \joii. Shamus ! poor 
Shamus ! don't look so wild — be ^oacified — I couldn't live for ever, 
and what death could be more welcome to me than this ? We'll 
meet again — maybe soon — I'd wish to see Phelim — but there's no 
time — bid him farewell for me, and tell him I have done my 
share — in revenging — Island Magee I Pray— pray for poor Aileen 
— Lord Jesus ! have mercy — mercy ! Mary, Mother of Christians ! 
— help me now — now " 

'''' Aileen ! Aileen ! " shouted Shamus, and he snatched the dying 
girl to his breast again — ^^ Aileen ! sure it isn't dying you'd be ? 
sure you wouldn't leave me, after all this ? " A bright smile beamed 
again on the pallid face, and there it rested — Aileen was with the 
dead ! 

It was hard to convince Shamus that all was over ; but when 
once he ii^as convinced, he sprang to his feet, and, imprinting a long 
kiss on the pale lips of his betrothed, he placed her gently in the 
arms of Emmeline, who sat weeping by, whilst Judith knelt to offer 
up a prayer for the departed s^^irit. 

'' I'll leave her here," said he, ^^ for a start till I go back to my work. 
My work I — ha I ha I ha I — ay ! my loorlc ! We must make an end 
of it this day, anyhow ! ladies ! dear ladies ! look at her — 
wasn't she the beauty ? But, oh I oh I the trick she played on me ! 
And she telling me that time when Phelim and me went to see her 
that I was never, never to go back next or nigh her — either me or 
Phelim — till the war would be over and the country free, and the 
Scotch murderers clean gone ! — Aileen I Aileen I But what am 
I standing here for when there's such good work to be done ? ]N^ow, 
God direct me to Sir Phelim ! " 

Away he darted with the speed of a lapwing, nor stopped till he 
made his way again to the side of his chief, thanking G-od that he, 
at least, was still spared. 

Just then old Lorcan Maguire was carried by bleeding profusely 
from a wound in the chest. The brave old man was near his last, yet 
he caught Sir Phelim' s eye for a moment, and he smiled a grim smile. 

" I'm done for, Phelim I" he hoarsely articulated ; '''but so is he 
too I — the villain that swore Connor's life away ! I swore to do it 
this day, and I've kept my word ! Cod, have mercy on my soul ! " 
The seer of Fermanagh spoke never more. 



yoS The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

Ir was true enough for Lorcan. Blayney was found amongst the 
slain. His fall struck terror into the hearts of the Scotch, but 
their misfoitunes were not at the height. All that dreadful eyening 
the work of death went on. the fanatics falling everYwhere like 
grass beneath the scythe of the mower. Many hundreds had already 
perished when the Rapparees. breaking from the bushes and thickets 
around, rushed into the contest, fresh and vigorous, with the terrible 
cry : 

'•' Island Magee — Death to the bloody Scots I " 

Like a fiery torrent on they passed, young Donogh at their head, 
looking like one of the athletes of old, his slight figui'e dilated, it 
would seem, beyond its wonted proportions, his arm endowed with 
giant strength by the mightiness of his wrongs, though he knew not 
then that the last of his race had fallen beneath a Scottish axe but 
a little while before. 

It was the day of awful retribution, the opportunity so long 
promised to the outraged clans of Ulster, and good use they made 
of it. The might of the oppressor was withered as grass, and the 
stoutest soldiers of the Covenant went down before the fiery clans- 
men of the north, and the legions of the tyrant were swept away 
like dry stubble in the flame, until the terrified surviYors, as evening 
drew on, finding no other retreat open to them, began to precipitate 
themselves into the river, where many hundreds perished.* Monroe 
did not wait to see the end of it. He made his escape fi'om that 
scene of carnage long before the set of sun, nor drew bridle, as was 
afterwards f otmd, till he gained the j^rotecting walls of Lisnagarvey. 
a feat quite in keeping with the man's character. 

The strangest thing of all was that but seventy of the Irish were 
slain in that battle, whilst two thousand three hundred of the enemy 
were found dead on the field, exclusive of those who found a grave 
in the Blackwater. 

- Protestant and Catholic historians all a^ree tJiat the Battle of Benbuib was one of 
the most complete victories ever gained by Irish valor. The admirable prudence and 
military still displayed by Owen O Xeill are loudly extoUed even by such irriters as 
Warner. Wri^t, Leland, etc. 



SISTER MARY FRANCIS CLARE, 

THE "NUN OF KENMARE." 

*' I know of no writer in any age or country who has in the same time pro- 
duced so many and such excellent works. She writes in hymn and history of 
saiat and statesman, of heaven and Ireland." — Hon. W. E. Robes'son. 

' ' Ireland may well be proud of this humble but celebrated inmate of the clois- 
ter, for she is Irish and Catholic in all her instincts, feelings, and aspii-ations. 
Her strong healthy spirit of nationality is the secret of her success in the world 
of letters. " — The * ' Catholic Record." 

"We congratulate you, beloved daughter in Christ, on having completed a 
long and difficult work, ^ which seemed to be above woman's strength, with a 
success that has justly earned the applause of the pious and the learned. We 
rejoice, not only because you have promoted by this learned and eloquent vol- 
ume the glory of the illustrious apostle of Ireland, St. Patrick, but also because 
you have deserved weU of the whole Church. " — Pius IX. 

MISS MARY CUSACK was born in the historic city of Dub- 
lin in the year 1832. She belongs to a wealthy Irish 
family/ many of whom figure conspicuously on the pages of Ireland's 
eventful story. Her parents being Protestants, educated their 
daughter in the doctrines of the Church of England. In her six- 
teenth year Miss Cusack left an English boardiug-school, having, to 
use an incorrect and mnch-abused phrase, '^ finished her educa- 
tion." " I had learned," she writes, " the usual amount of accom- 
plishments, but one particle of solid instruction I had not. . . . 
When I left school I began to educate myself, and devoted many 
hours of the day to solid reading." ^ 

Thus the fair and bright young genius became her own teacher, 
and wisely laid the solid foundation of her after greatness. 

Filled with noble aspirations, and wishing to lead a higher and 
holier life. Miss Cusack joined a Protestant sisterhood in England. 
Eive years of such a career convinced her rich mind that she had 

1 " The Life of St. Patrick." 

2 Sir Thomas Cusack was Lord Chancellor of Ireland in the reign of Elizabeth ; and Miss 
Cusack's uncle, Sir Ralph Cusack, was President of the Royal College of Surgeons some 
years ago. 

3 " Protestant Sisterhoods and CathoUc Convents." 

709 



7io The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

not found what she sought, and with that rare courage which is in- 
spired by profound conviction and lofty purpose, she became a 
Catholic, returned to her native land, and in 1861 joined the Order 
of Poor Clares, taking in religion the name of Sister Mary Francis 
Clare. 

"Heedless of wealth,"* says Mr. Eobinson, "and forgetting all 
pride of ancestry, she assumed the garb of poverty, embraced the 
religion which her distinguished ancestors had abandoned, flung her 
share of the Avealth and honors which they had saved into the lap 
of charity, and dedicated herself through life to the cause of educa- 
tion and religion, of her country and her Cod. Well might we say 
of her : 

*' * She once was a lady of honor and wealth, 

Bright glowed on her features the roses of health ; 
Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold, 
And her motion shook perfume from every fold ; 
Joy revelled around her, love shone at her side, 
And gay was her smile as the glance of a bride.' 

^' But now : 

*' ' Her down-bed a pallet, her trinkets a bead ; 
Her lustre one taper that serves her to read ; 
Her sculpture the crucifix, nailed by her bed ; 
Her paintings one print of the thorn-crowned head 
Her cushion the pavement, that wearies her knees 
Her music the psalm, or the sigh of disease. 
The delicate lady lives mortified there. 
And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer.' " 

This remarkably-gifted Irish lady, now and for evermore to be 
known as tlie Nun of Kenmare,^ i^ the author of about /or^ volumes, 
some historical, some biograj)hical, some imaginative, and many en- 
tirely devoted to religion. She appears to think and write with the 
speed of the telegraph. Indeed, her chief productions have been pub- 
lished during the last ten years. Of these the princij^al are : " The 
Illustrated History of Ireland," " The Life of St. Patrick, Apostle 
of Ireland," and "The Life of Daniel O'Connell"— all of them 
large volumes. Of the first, it is sufficient to say that no less an 
authority than John Mitchel considered it the best, most popular, 

" Speech of March 13, 1872. 

s From Kenmare Convent, county of Kerry, which -was founded in 1861 by the Abbess 
Mary O'Hagan, sister of Lord O'Hagan For a graphic sketch of this celebrated institu- 
tion see the '-Life of Mary O'Hagan, Abbess and Foundress," by Sister Mary Francis 
Clare, 



Sister Mary Francis Clare. 7 1 1 

and most gracefully-written work on Irish history. Her ^^Life of 
St. Patrick"' is the ^rs^ biography that gave a literary record in 
some way really worthy of the great apostle of Ireland. For this 
work the good and gifted sister received a flattering Brief ^ from 
his Holiness Pins IX. Her ''Life of Daniel O'Connell" is an elo- 
quent and elaborate work, not in any way inferior to her volume on 
St. Patrick. The Nun of Kenmare is now (187'T) passing through 
the press what promises to be her greatest production on Ireland, 
'' The History of the Irish Nation, Social, Ecclesiastical, Biographi- 
cal, Industrial, and Antiquarian." It deals in detail with every sub- 
ject of Irish history and Irish art. 

Here, then, is a Catholic lady — and a cloistered nun at that — who 
has accomplished what no other woman of ancient or modern times 
has ever done before. She has created an epoch in the history of 
Irish literature. Her name is known and revered, and her influence 
is felt in both hemispheres. In the literary firmament she already 
shines a star of the first magnitude; and we can truly say of Sister 
Mary Francis Clare what was said of a great author' of the six- 
teenth century — she has written more books than other people have 
read ! 

We conclude by quoting the elegant stanzas of Denis Florence- 
MacCarthy on her '' Illustrated History of Ireland " : 

*' Thou hast done weU, thou gentle nun ; 
Thou, in thy narrow cell, hast done 
"Work that the manliest heart might shun — 
The ' ' History " of our land, 

" 'Twas love that winged that pen of thine, 
'Twas truth that sanctified each line, 
'Twas an ambition so divine 

That nothing could withstand. 

" So long as there are hearts to feel 
For Ireland's woe, for Ireland's weal, 
This glorious tribute of thy zeal 

Will wake the grateful prayer. 

6 This Brief is said to be the first letter of congratiilation and approval that any pop© 
has ever sent to any lady on the completion of a book. It is gratifying to know that an 
Irish lady was the first thus honored. 

1 Erasmus. 



7 T 2 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

" Henceforth be sung with loud acclaim, 
Be writ upon the scrolls of fame, 
The last and dearest Irish name 

Of Mary Francis Clare ! " 



FATHER O'GRADY'S ADVENTURES. 

[From the " Life of Daniel O'Connell."] 

Fathee O'Grady was then the chaplain of the O'Connell family, 
and prepared the boy * for the sacraments. A curious anecdote is 
told of this ecclesiastic. He resided at Louvain during the wars of 
Marlborough, and, from the troubled state of Flanders, he was reduced 
to the deepest distress. He begged his way to the coast, hoping to 
meet some yessel whose captain might take him for charity to Ire- 
land. As he was trudging slowly and painfully along, he suddenly 
fell in with a band of robbers. One of the robbers was a Kerry- 
man named Denis Mahony, who, moved to compassion by the 
penniless poverty of the priest, and charmed with the sound of his 
native tongue, gave him, out of his own share of plunder, the means 
of returning to Ireland. 

" Grod be merciful to poor Denis Mahony," Father O'G-rady was 
accustomed to say, when relating this adventure ; '^^ I found him a 
useful friend in need. But, for all that, he might prove a very dis- 
agreeable neighbor." 

The Liberator, in after years, accounted for the appearance of 
a native of Kerry among a gang of Flemish robbers by supposing 
that he had served in Marlborough's army, and, deserting from ill- 
treatment, sought subsistence on the highway as a footpad. 

But poor Father O'Grady only escaped from the perils of starva- 
tion and the sea to run the risk of hanging or imprisonment at 
home. 

He was seized on his return to Ireland, and tried on the charge of 
being a '^ popish priest." A witness mounted the table and swore 
he had heard him '^ say" Mass. 

'^ Pray, sir," said the judge, ^Hiow do you know he said Mass ? " 

^' I heard him say it, my lord," replied the witness. 

^' Did he say it in Latin ?" enquired his lordship. 

^^Yes, my lord." 

8 Daniel O'Connell. 



Sister Mary Francis Clare, 713 

" Then you understand Latin ? " 

^^ A little." 

"What words did yon hear him use ?" 

"Ave Maria." 

" That is part of the Lord's Prayer, is it not ?" 

" Yes, my lord," was the fellow's answer. 

''Here is a pretty witness to convict the prisoner," cried the 
judge. '' He swears the Aye Maria is Latin for the Lord's Prayer." 
As the judge pronounced a favorable charge, the jury acquitted 
Pather O'Grady. 



THE DEATH OF ORE. 

[From the " Illustrated History of Ireland."] 

In the autumn of this year (1797) Mr. Orr, of Antrim, was tried 
and executed on a charge of administering the oath of the United 
Irishmen to a soldier. This gentleman was a j)erson of high charac- 
ter and respectability. He solemnly protested his innocence. The 
soldier, stung with remorse, swore before a magistrate that the testi- 
mony he gave at the trial was false. Petitions were at once sent in 
praying for the release of the prisoner, but in vain. He was executed 
on the 14th of October, though no one doubted his innocence ; and 
*'Orr's fate" became a watchword of, and an incitement to, rebel- 
lion. Several of the jury made a solemn oath after the trial that 
when locked up for the night to " consider " their verdict they 
were supplied abundantly with intoxicating drinks, and informed, 
one and all, that if they did not give the required verdict of guilty, 
they should themselves be prosecuted as LTnited Irishmen. Mr. Orr 
was offered his life and his liberty again and again if he would admit 
his guilt ; his wife and four young children added their tears and 
entreaties to the persuasions of his friends ; but he preferred truth 
and honor to life and freedom. His end was worthy of his 
resolution. On the scaffold he turned to his faithful attendant and 
asked him to remove his watch, as he should need it no more. Mr. 
Orr was a sincere Protestant ; his servant w^as a Catholic. His last 
words are happily still on record. He showed the world how a 
Protestant patriot could die, and that the more sincere and deep his 
piety the less likely he w^ould be to indulge in fanatical hatred of 
those who differed from him. '' You, my friend," he said to his 



714 The Prose ana Poetry of Ireland, 

weeping and deyoted servant — ^^yon, my friend, and 1 must now 
l^art. Our stations here on eartli have been a little different, and 
our mode of worshipping the Almighty Being that we both adore. 
Before his presence we shall stand equal. Parewell ! Ee member 
Orr ! " 



CROMWELL'S FANATICISM AND BARBARITIES IN IRELAND. 

[From the " Illustrated History of Ireland."] 

Cromwell had been made lieutenant-general of the English 
army in Ireland, but as yet he had been unable to take command in 
person. His position was precarious, and he wished to secure his 
influence still more firmly in his own country before he attempted 
the conquest of another. He had succeeded so far in the accom- 
j^lishment of his plans that his departure and his journey to Bristol 
were undertaken in royal style. He left the metro2:)olis early in 
June in a coach drawn by six gallant Flanders mares, and con- 
cluded his progress at Milford Haven, where he embarked, reaching 
Ireland on the 14th of August, 1649. He was attended by some of 
the most famous of the Parliamentary generals— his son Henry, the 
future lord-deputy, Monk, Blake, Ireton, Waller, Ludlow, and 
others. He brought with him for the joropagation of the G-ospel 
and the Commonwealth £200,000 in money, eight regiments of 
foot, six of horse, several troops of dragoons, a large supply of Bi- 
bles, and a corresponding provision of am.munition and scythes. 
The Bibles were to be distributed amongst his soldiers, and to be 
given to the poor unfortunate natives, who could not understand a 
word of their contents. The scythes and sickles were to dejDrive 
them of all means of living, and to preach a ghastly commentary 
on the conduct of the men who wished to convert them to the new 
Gospel, which certainly was not one of peace. Cromwell now is- 
sued two proclamations — one against intemperance, for he knew 
well the work that was before him, and he could not afford to have 
a single drunken soldier in his camp. The other proclamation i^ro- 
hibited plundering the country people ; it was scarcely less prudent. 
His soldiers miglat any day become his masters if they were not 
kept under strict control, and there are few things which so effect- 
ually lessen military discipline as permission to plunder. He also 
wished to encourage the country people to bring in provisions. His 
arrangements all succeeded. 



Sister Alary Francis Clare. 



/^D 



Ormonde liad garrisoned Drogheda witli 3.000 of his choicest 
trooj)s. They were partly English, and were commanded by a brave 
loyalist, Sir Arthur Aston. This was really the most important 
town in Ireland, and Cromwell, whose skill as a mihtary general can- 
not be disputed, at once determined to lay siege to it. He encamped 
before the devoted city on the 2d of September, and in a few days 
liad his siege-gnns posted on the hill still known as Cromwell's 
Fort. Two breaches were made on the 10th, and he sent in 
his storming parties about five o'clock in the evening. Earth- 
works had been thrown np inside, and the garrison resisted with 
undiminished bravery. The besieged at last wavered ; quarter was 
promised to them, and they yielded ; but the promise came from 
men who knew neither how to keep faith or to show mercy. The 
brave governor. Sir Arthur Aston, retired with his staff to an old 
mill on an eminence, but they were disarmed and slain in cold 
blood. Tlie officers and soldiers were first exterminated, and then 
men, women, and children were j^ut to the sword. Tbe butchery 
occupied five entire days. Cromwell has himself described the 
scene, and glories in his cruelty. Another eye-witness, an officer in 
his army, has described it also, but with some faint touch of re- 
morse. A number of the townspeople fled for safety to St. Peter's 
Church on the north side of the city, but every one of them was 
murdered, all defenceless and unarmed as they were ; others took 
refuge in the church steeple, but it was of wood, and Cromwell him- 
self gave orders that it should be set on fire, and those who attempt- 
ed to escape the flames were piked. The principal ladies of the 
city had sheltered themselves in the cry]^)ts. It might have been 
supposed that this precaution should be unnecessary, or at least 
that English officers would respect their sex, but, alas I for common 
humanity, it was not so. When the slaughter had been accom- 
plished above, it was continued below. Xeither youth nor beauty 
was spared. Thomas Wood, who was one of these officers and bro- 
ther to Anthony Wood, the Oxford historian, says he found in these 
vaults '• the flower and choicest of the women and ladies belonging 
to the town, amongst whom a most handsome virgin, arrayed in 
costly and gorgeous apparel, kneeling down to him with tears and 
prayers to save her life." Touched by her beauty and her entrea- 
ties, he attempted to save her. A soldier thrust a sword into her 
body, and the officer, recovering from his momentaiy fit of compas- 
sion, •• fluusf her down over the rocks,"* according to his own 



2" 1 6 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland. 

account, but first took care to possess liimself of lier money and 
jewels. This officer also mentions that the soldiers were in the 
habit of taking up a child and using it as a buckler when they 
wished to ascend the lofts and galleries of the church, to save them- 
selves from being shot or brained. It is an evidence that the}^ knew 
their victims to be less cruel than themselves or the exj)edient would 
not have been found to answer. 

Cromwell wrote an account of this massacre to the ^' Council of 
State.*' His letters, as his admiring editor^ observes, "tell their 
own tale,'' and unquestionably that tale plainly intimates that 
whether the Eepublican general wers hypocrite or fanatic — and 
it is in'obable he was a compound of both — he certainly, on his 
own showing, was little less than a demon of cruelty. Cromwell 
writes thus: "It hath pleased God to bless our endeavors at 
Drogheda. After battery, we stormed it. The enemy were about 
3,000 strong in the town. They made a stout resistance. I believe 
we put to the sword the whole number of defendants. I do not 
think thirty of the whole number escaped with their lives. Those 
that did are in safe custody for the Barbadoes. This hath been a 
marvellous great mercy." In another letter he says that this " great 
thing" was done "'by the S^jirit of God." 

: » Carlyle. 



f . 



FATHER THOMAS N, BURKE, O.P„ 

THE IRISH LACORDAIRE. 

" He is one of the most extraordinary men of this our nineteenth century," — 
Archbishop MacHale. 

' ' The name of Father Burke will be as famous in Irish annals as that of his 
illustrious countryman, thj great Edmund'Burke. If the latter was the oracle 
of the senate, the former is a prince of the pulpit." — The " Catholic Record." 

WE began cur sketches of Ii'ish writers with a famous monk 
and missionary of the sixth century, and we bring them to 
a close with a famous monk and missionary of the nineteenth 
century. Surely glory and hope- smile ujoon the wonderful land 
that can produce such men as St. Columbkille in the sixth century 
and Father Burke in the nineteenth century ! 

Thomas N. Burke was born in the good old city of Galway in the 
year 1830. Irish was the first language he spoke, and among the 
"things of beauty" which, it is said, he committed to memory in 
childhood were the most popular of Moore's "Melodies" as trans- 
lated into Irish by Archbishop MacHale. The bright and hearty 
boy receiyed his early education in his native city at the schools of 
Erasmus Smith. Though fond of play, he loved his books, and was 
a hard, earnest student. 

In 1847 he entered the Order of St. Dominic, left his comfortable 
home and his dear Irish father and mother, and set out for Rome, 
where he completed his ecclesiastical studies. After five well-spent 
years in Italy, his superior sent him to England, where he was 
ordained priest. AYe have neither space nor ability to follow Father 
Burke in his labors, in his onward and upward steps in fame, virtue, 
and learning. Gloucestershire, England, was the scene of his 
arduous missionary labors for four years; then he was entrusted 
with the important task of founding a novitiate and house of studies 
for his Order in Ireland. His eloquence first attracted attention in 
Dublin, where he preached in the old church of St. Saviour, Den- 
mark Street. A retreat which he conducted for the students of 
Maynooth College in 1859 established his fame as the most eloquent 

717 



7 1 8 The Prose and Poetry of Irela7id, 

preacher ever heard within the classic walls of that institiitiou. In 
1866 the scene of his labors was changed. He was recalled to Rome 
and appointed snperior of St. Clement's^, the oldest basilica Avithin 
the City of the Seven Hills. There upon him was conferred the rare 
honor of delivering the Lenten sermons in English — an office which 
at various times had been filled by Archbishop !^[acHale, Cardinal 
Wiseman, and Cardinal Manning. ^'Immediately previous to the 
assembling of the Vatican Council/' says a recent writer, '^'^his voice 
Avas heard for the last time in the church of Santa Maria by as in- 
tellectual an audience as ever hung Avith rapture upon the accents 
of Bossuet and Bourdaloue." 

In 1871 Father Burke was appointed Visitor of the Dominican 
Order in the United States, and in the autumn of that year he 
landed in Ncav York. His career in this Eepublic was the greatest 
triumph of his life. In the words of the illustrious Archbishop 
MacHale, ^*It might be said of him as of Caesar, Yeni, vidi, vici ; 
but hoAV dissimilar were those conquests." 

Clothed in the white habit of his Order, he spoke, and such was 
his eloquence that this whole Eepublic listened, all were delighted, 
and, for the time, even grim prejudice hung its head in shame, and 
falsehood slunk out of sight. In his hands old truths assumed new 
beauties. Whatever he touched he adorned. He spoke of the 
ancient glories of Ireland, the fidelity of the Irish race, and the holy 
g-randeur of the Catholic Church, and at the very sound of his magic 
A'oice multittides were charmed and elevated to enthusiasm. In 
vain do we search the history of this age for anything similar. On 
one occasion he preached at the dedication of a church in Massa- 
chusetts in the morning, and on the evening of the same day he 
addressed in the Coliseum of Boston 40,000 people — ^^ the largest 
2)aying audience ever assembled to listen to one man.'' 

Froude, the famous English historian, came to America and be-, 
gan to slander Ireland. The great Dominican Avas called on to 
reply. He did so in his own direct, manly, courteous style, and never 
Avas victory more complete. With reputation sadly lowered, and 
the Avord ^'libeller" written across his name, the pompous Englisli- 
man, renowned scholar of Oxford, and ardent admirer of Henry 
VIII., turned his back on the Republic, and took the shortest route 
home. 

Father Burke is a ruler of thought and a master of simple, effec- 
tive language. Like the plays of Shakspeare, new beauties can 1)0 



Father Thomas N. Burke, O.P, 



719 



discoTerecl in each of the matchless discourset: of the eloquent 
Dominican. Eef erring to the sorrows of Pius IX., he says : '' He is 
now on the road to Calvary, bendiiig nnder the weight of his cross. 
Let every man be a Simon the Cyrenian ; let every woman be a 
Veronica." 

Again, he refers to the blood-stained career of Protestantism in 
Ireland, and in three sentences he writes its history : '' The ground 
was dug as for a grave. The seedling of Protestantism was cast 
iuto the soil, and the blood of the Irish nation was poured in to 
warm it and bring it forth. It never grew ; it never bloomed ; it 
never came forth." His pages sjDarkle with humor. ^* An effort," 
he remarks, ^Ho excite an Irishman to dislike England is about as 
necessary as to encourage a cat to take a mouse." This is word 
painting not, perhaps, surpassed by any writer of the English 
language. 

Eather Burke's Lectures, in our opinion, entitle him to rank 
with the best authors of this age. Live they will. The subjects 
are well chosen, and treated in a popular style and with unrivalled 
skill. But they will live not on account of the subjects, nor even 
of the style of treatment. They are rich in words that move and 
thoughts that burn. They possess that soul, that vital element, 
which in writing is proof against decay. In the following lecture 
we joresent the reader with a masterpiece of eloquence, history, and 
philosophy. 






THE IRISH PEOPLE IN THEIR RELATION TO CATHOLICITY. 

[A Lecture delivered in New York City June 6, 1872.] 

My Feiexds : The subject on which I have the honor to address 
you this evening is one of the most interesting that can occupy your 
attention or mine. It is : Christiak-ity ; or. The Christiax 

KeLIGIO^^ as reflected lif THE ISTATIOi^AL CHARACTER OF THE 

Irish Race. I say this subject is interesting, for nothing that can 
offer itself to the consideration of the thoughtful mind, or to the 
l^hilosopher, can possibly be more interesting than the study of the 
character and the genius of a people. It is the grandest question of 
a human sort that could occupy the attention of man. The whole 
race comes under a mental review ; the history of that race is to be 
ascertained; the antecedents of that jieople have to be studied in 
order to account for the national character, as it represents itself 



720 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

to-dav among the nations of the eartli. Every nation^ every people 
under heaven has its o^sni peculiar national character. The nation, 
the race is made up of thousands and millions of individual men and 
women. Whatever the individual is, that the nation is found to be in 
the aggregate. AVhateyer influences the individual was subjected to 
in forming his character, establishing a certain tone of thought, cer- 
tain sympathies, antipathies, likings or dislikings — whatever, I 
say, forms the individual character in all these joarticulars, the 
same forms the nation and the race, because the nation is but an 
assemblasre of individuals. 

Xow, I ask you, among all the influences that can be brought to 
bear upon the individual man, to form his character, to make him 
either orood or bad. to crive tone to his thousfhts, to strins: his soul 
and to tune it, to make him fly to God, to produce all this which is 
called character — is it not perfectly true that the most j^owerful in- 
fluence of all is that man's religion ? It is not so much his educa- 
tion; for men may be equally educated — one just as well as the 
other — yet they maybe different from each other as day from night. 
It is not so much his associations, for men may be in the same walk 
of life, men may be surrounded by the same circumstances of 
family, of antecedents, of wealth or poverty, as the case may be, yet 
may be as different as day and night. But when religion comes in 
and fills the mind with a certain knowledge, fills the soul with cer- 
tain principles, elevates the man to a recognition and acknowledg- 
ment of certain truths, imposes upon him certain truths and in the 
nature of the most sacred of aU obligations — namely, the obligation 
of eternal salvation — when this j)rinciple comes in it immediately 
forms the man's character, determines what manner of man he shall 
be, crives a moral tone to the man's whole life. And so it is with 
nations. 

Among the influences that form a nation's character, that give to 
a people the stamp of their national and original individuality, the 
most potent of aU is the xatiox's eeligiox. If that religion be 
gloomy, if it be a fatalistic doctrine, telling every man he was 
created to be damned, you at once induce upon the people or the 
nation that profess it a hang-dog, miserable, melancholy feeling 
that makes them oo throusrh hfe like some of our Xew England 
Calvinists, sniffling and sighing and lifting up their eyes, telling 
everybody that if they look crooked, looking either to the right or 
the left, they will go to hell. You know the propensity of some 



Father Thomas N. Burke, O.P, 721 

people to be always damniug one another. If^ on the other Land, 
the religion be bright; if it open a glimpse of heaven, founded upon 
an intellectual principle ; if it springs up a man's hopes, tells him in 
all his adversities and his misfortunes to look up, gives him a 
glimpse that the G-od that made him is waiting to crown him with 
glory, you will have a bright, cheerful, brave, and courageous 
people. 

]^ow, such a religion is the Christianity that Christ founded upon 
this earth. I assert that if that religion of Christ be a true reli- 
gion — as we know it to be — that there is not upon this earth a race 
whose national character has been so thoroughly moulded and formed 
by that divine religion as the Irish race, to which I belong. It is easy, 
my friends, to make assertions ; it is not so easy to prove them. I 
am not come here to-night to flatter you or to make crude assertions ; 
but I am come here to lay down the principle which is just enunci- 
ated, and to j)rove it. 

What is the Christian character ? What character does Christi- 
anity form in a man ? What does it make of a man ? Men are 
born into this world more or less alike. It is true that the Chinaman 
has no bridge to his nose, and that his eyes turn up, both occupied 
watching where the bridge ought to be ; but that is an immaterial 
thing. Intellectually, and even morally, ail men are mostly born 
alike. The world takes them in hand and turns out a certain class 
of men equal to its own requirements, and tries to make him every- 
thing that the world wants him to be. G-od also takes him in hand. 
God makes him to be not only what the world expects of him, but 
also what God and Heaven expect of him. That is the difference 
between the two classes of men. The man whose character is mostly 
worldly — who is not a Christian — and the man whose character is 
formed by the divine religion of Christ. What does the world ex- 
pect and try to make of the child ? Well, it will try to make him 
an honest man. And this is a good thing ; the world says it is "the 
noblest work of God." Without going so far as to say this, 
I say that an honest man is very nearly the noblest work of God. 
The man who is equal to all his engagements, the man who is not a 
thief or a robber (the world does not like that), the man who is 
commercially honest and fair in his dealings with his fellow-men — 
that is a valuable ^artue. The world expects him to be an industri- 
ous man, a man who minds his business, and tries, as we say in 
Ireland, "'to make a penny of money." That is a very good thing. 



72 2 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

I hope you will all attend to it. I will be gladdened and delighted — 
if ever I shonld come to America again — I will be overjoyed, to hear 
if any one comes to me and says in truth : " Why, Father Burke, all 
these Irishmen you saw in New York when you were here before 
have become wealthy, and are at the top of the wheel." Nothing 
conld give me more cheer. The world expects a man to be indus- 
trious and temperate; because if a man is not industrious, is not 
temperate, he never goes ahead ; he does no good for his Grod, his 
country, or anybody. Therefore, this is also a good thing. 

But when the world has made a truth-telling man an honest man, 
^n industrious and a temperate man, the world is satisfied. The 
world says: ^^I have done enough ; that is all I want." The man 
makes a fortune, the man establishes a name, and the world at once 
— society around him — offer him the incense of their praise. They 
say: *^ There was a splendid man. He left his mark upon society." 
And they come together and put in a subscription to erect a statue 
for him in the Central Park. But they have not made a Christian. 
All those are human virtues, excellent and necessary. Don't imagine 
that I want to say a word against them. They are necessary virtues. 
No man can be a true Christian unless he have them. But the 
Christian has a great deal more. He is perfectly distinctive in his 
character from the honest, truth-telling, thrifty, and temperate man 
that the world makes. The Christian character is founded upon all 
these human virtues, for it supposes them all, and then, when it 
has laid the foundation of all this — the foundation of nature — it 
follows up with the magnificent super-edifice of grace, and the 
Christian character is founded in man by the three virtues — faith, 
hope, and love. Therefore, St. Paul, speaking to the early Chris- 
tians, said to them: ^^Now, my friends and brethren, you are honest, 
you are sober, you are industrious, you have all these virtues and I 
praise you for them ; I tell you now there remain unto you f aith, 
hope, and charity — these three. " For these three are the formation 
of the Christian character. Let us examine what these three vir- 
tues mean. First of all, my friends, these three virtues are distin- 
guished from all the human ^drtues in this : that the human virtues 
— ^honesty, sobriety, temperance, truthfulness, fidelity, and so on — 
establish a man in his proper relations to his fellow-men and to him- 
self. They have nothing to say of G-od directly nor indirectly. If 
I am an honest man, it means that I pay my debts. To whom do I 
pay these debts ? To the people I owe money to — to my butcher. 



Father Thomas N, Bitrke, O.P. 723 

my baker, my tailor ;, etc. ; I meet their bills and pay them. 1 owe 
no man anything, and people say I am an honest man. That means 
that I have done my duty to my fellow-men. It is no direct homage 
to God. It is only homage to God when that truth springs from 
the supernatural and divine motive of faith. If I am a temperate 
man, it means, especially to the Irishman, that I am a loving father, 
a good husband, a good son. An Irishman is all this as long as he 
is temperate ; but remember that the wife, the child, the father, and 
the mother are not God. Temperance makes him all right in rela- 
tion to himself and his family around him. If I am a truth-telling 
man, the meaning is, I am '^on the square," as they say, with mv 
neighbors ; but my neighbors are not God. But the moment I am 
actuated by faith, hope, and charit}', that moment I am elevated to- 
wards God. My faith tells me there is a God. If that God has 
spoken to me, that God has told me things which I cannot under- 
stand, and yet I am bound to believe. Faith is the virtue that 
realizes Almighty God and all the things of God as they are known 
by divine revelation. 

There are two worlds, the visible and the invisible — the world 
that we see and the world we do not see. The world ^ that we 
see is our native country, our families, our friends, our churches, 
our Sunday for amusement, our pleasant evenings, and so on. All 
these things make up the visible world that we see. But there- is 
another world that ^^ eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard, nor hath 
it entered into the heart of man to conceive," and that world is the 
world revealed to us by faith. It is far more real, far more lasting, 
far more substantial than the visible world. We say in the creed, 
^'^I believe in God the Father xllmighty. Creator of all things visible 
and invisible." ^ow, in that invisible world first of all is the God 
that created and redeemed us. We have not seen him, yet wx know 
that he exists. In that invisible world are the angels and saints. 
We have not seen them, yet we know they exist. In that invisible 
world are all the friends that we loved who have been taken from 
us by the hand of death, those the very sound of wiiose name 
brings the tear to our eyes and the prayer of supplication to our 
lips. We see them no longer, but w^e know that they still live in 
that invisible world that ^^eye hath not seen." Now, the virtue of 
faith in the Christian character is the power that God gives by 
divine grace to a man to realize that invisible world — to realize it so 
that he makes it more substantial to him than the world around 



724 ^'^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

him ; that he realizes more about it, and is more interested 
in it, and almost knows more about it, than the world around 
him. The virtue of faith is that power of God by which a man is 
enabled to realize the invisible, for the object of faith is invisible. 
Our Lord says to Thomas, the apostle, '* Because thou hast seen thou 
belie vest ; blessed are they that have not seen and have believed.'' 

This is the first feature of the Christian character — the power of 
realizing the un^en, the power of knowing it, the power of feeling 
it, the power of substantiating it to the soul and to the mind, until 
out of that substantiation of the invisible comes the enCTossins: 
ardent desire to make that invisible surround him. This is faith. 
Consequently the man of faith, in addition to being honest, indus- 
trious, temperate, truthful, and having all the human virtues, is a 
firm believer. It costs him no effort to believe in that mystery, be- 
cause he cannot comprehend it, because he has never seen it. He 
knows it is true ; he admits that truth ; he stakes his own life upon 
the issue of that divine truth which he has apprehended by the act 
of the intelligence and not by the senses. 

The next gi'eat feature of the Christian character is the virtue of 
hope. The Christian man is confident in his hope. God has made 
certain promises. God has said that neither in this world nor in 
the world to come will he abandon the iust man. He mav trv him 
with poverty ; he may try him with sickness ; he may demand what- 
ever sacrifice he will ; but he never will abandon him. Thus saith 
the Lord. !N"ow, the virtue of hoj)e is that which enables the Chris- 
tian man to rest with joerfect security — with unfailing, undying 
confidence in every promise of God, as long as the man himself ful- 
fils the conditions of these promises. The consequence is that the 
Christian man, by virtue of this hoj)e that is in him, is lifted up 
beyond all the miseries and sorrows of this world, and he looks upon 
them all in their true light. H poverty comes upon him, he remem- 
bers the poverty of Jesus Christ, and he says in his hope, ^^Well, 
the Lord passed through the ways of poverty into the rest of his 
glory ; so shall I rest as he did. I hope for it." If sickness or sor- 
row come upon him, he looks upon the trials and sorrows of our 
God. If difficulties rise in his path, he never desj)airs in himself, for 
he has the promise of God that these difficulties are only trials sent 
by God, and, sooner or later, he will triumph over them — i^erhajis 
in time, but certainly in eternity. 

Finallv, the third ofreat feature of the Christian character is the 



Father Thomas N. Burke, O.P. 725 

virtue of love. It is the active virtue that is in a man, forcing him 
to love his God, to be faithful to his God, to love his religion, to be 
faithful to that religion, to love his neighbor as he loves himself, 
especially to love those who have the first claim uj^on him — the 
father and mother that love him, to whom he is bound to give honor 
as well as love ; then the wife of his bosom, and the children that 
God has given him, to whom he is bound to give support and sus- 
tenance as well as love : his verv enemies, he must have no enemv, 
no personal desire for revenge at all ; but if there be a good cause, 
he must defend that cause, even though he smite his enemy, the 
enemy not of him personally, but of his cause ; but always be ready 
to show mercy and to exhibit love, even to his enemies. This is the 
Christian man ; how different from the mere man of the world ! 
The Christian man's faith acknowledges the claims of God; his 
hope strains after God ; his love lays hold of God ; he makes God 
his own. 

Xow, my friends, this being the Christian cliaracter, I ask you to 
consider the second part of my proposition — namely, that the Irish 
people have received especial grace from God ; that no people upon 
the face of the earth have been so thoroughly formed into their 
national character as the Irish by the divine princij^les of the Holy 
Catholic reliarion of Jesus Christ. 

How are we to know the national character ? Well, my friends, 
we have two great clues or means of knowing. First of all, we 
have the joast history of our race, and the tale that it tells us. 
Secondly, we have the men of to-day (wherever the Irishman 
•exists), wherever they assemble together and form society, and the 
tale that that society tells us to-day. 

Let us first consider briefly the past of our nation, of our race, 
and then we will consider the Irishman of to-day. Let us consider 
the past of our history as a race, as a nation, the history of faith, 
hoj)e, and love for God. Is it pre-eminently stich a histoiy ? Is 
it such a history of Christianity, faith, hope, and love that no 
other nation on the face of the earth can equal it ? If so, I have 
proved my proposition. Xow, exactly one thousand and sixty years 
before America was discovered by Columbus, Patrick the a2:)ostle 
landed in Ireland. The nation to which he came was a most 
ancient race, derived from one of the primeval races that peopled 
the earth — from the great Phoenician family of the East. They 
landed in the remote mists of prehistoric times upon a green isle 



726 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

in the western ocean. They ])eopled it ; they colonized it ; thej 
established laws ; they opened schools ; they had their philosophy, 
their learning, their science and art, equal to that of any other 
civilization of the day. They were a people well known, in theii* 
pagan days, to the ancient Egyptians and the ancient Greeks. The 
name of rhe island — the name by which we call it to-day — Erin, 
was only a name that came after the more ancient name. For by 
the Greeks and the people of old, hundreds of years before the 
birth of Christ, our Ireland was called by the name of Oggia, or 
* • the most ancient land." It was spoken of by the most remote 
authors of antiquity; the most ancient Greek writers, and other 
authors now extant, spoke of Ireland as the far distant ocean ; 
s]X)ke of it as a place of wonderful beauty, as a place of ineffable 
charm ; spoke of it as something like that high Elysium of the 
jx>et's dream : '* An island rising out of the sea, the fairest and 
most beautiful of all the sea's productions.'' 

We know that our ancestoi-s at a most remote period received 
another colony from Spain. We know that the Milesians landed 
on an island they called Innisfail, their '^land of destiny." We 
know that they came from the fair southern sunny land, bringing 
with them high valor, mighty hope, generotis aspirations, and an 
advanced degree of civilization; and the original inhabitants of 
Ireland intermingled their race with the ^lilesians. In that inter- 
m in ogling was formed the Celtic constitution which divided Ireland 
into four kingdoms, all united under a high monarch and supreme 
king (Ard-righ) — the high-king of Ireland. The palace of Ireland's 
kin ST. as fittinsr. was built almost in the centre of the island, two 
miles from the fatal Boyne. The traveller comes through a beauti- 
ful undulating land towards the hill-top, rich in verdure, abundant 
and fmitful, crowned with lovely wood on eveiy side. It is the 
plain of *'*' royal Meath." He arrives at the foot of the hill. The 
summit of that hill for centuries was crowned with the palace of 
Ireland's kings. It was called in the language of the people 
*• Tara *' — ^the palace of the kings. There, on Easter Sunday mom- 
in2:. in the vear 432, earlv in the fifth centurv of the Christian era, 
a most singular sight presented itself. Ireland's monarch sat upon 
his throne in high council ; around him were the sovereign kings 
and chieftains of the nation ; around him again in their ranks were 
the pagan priests — the Druids of the old fire-worship : around him 
again, on either side, on thrones as if they were monarchs, sat the 



Father Thovtas IV. Burke, O.P. 727 

magnificent ancient minstrels of Ireland, with snow-white flow- 
ing heards. their harps ii23on their knees, filling the air with the 
glorious melody of Ireland's music, while they poured out upon the 
wings of song the time-honored story of Ireland's heroes and their 
o:lorious kinsfs. 

SudderJy a shadow fell upon the threshold; a man appeared, with 
mitre on head, cope on shoulders, and a crosier in his hand, with 
the cross of Christ upon it. And this was Patrick, who came from 
Rome to preach Christianity to the Irish kings, chieftains, and peo- 
ple. They received him as became a civilized and enlightened peo- 
ple. They did not stand, like other nations, in a wild hubbub of 
barbarism to denounce the truth as soon as they heard it, and put 
the truth-teller and the messenger to death ; but they sat down, 
these kings, these minstrels, these judges of the land, these most 
learned philosophers ; they disputed with Patrick ; they brought 
the keen weapons of human wisdom and of human intellect to bear 
against that sword which he wielded. Oh ! it was the sword of the 
spirit, Ihe word of God — the Lord Jesus Christ. And when at 
length that king and chieftains, all these Druids and bards, found 
that Patrick preached a reasonable religion, that Patrick tried to 
prove his religion and brought conviction unto their minds, up rose 
at length the head of all the bards and of Ireland's minstrels, the 
man next in authority to the king, the sainted Dubhac, the arch- 
minstrel of the royal monarch of Tara — up rose this man in the 
might of his intellect, in the glory of his voice and his presence, 
and lifting up his harp in his hand he said: '^Hear me, high- 
kins^ and chieftains of the land I I now declare that this man who 
comes to us speaks from God — that he brings a message from God. 
I bow before Patrick's God. He is the tnie God, and as long as I 
live this harp of mine shall never sound again save to the j^raises of 
Christianitv and its God." And the kino: and chieftains and bards 
and warriors and judges and people alike rose promptly ; and never 
in the history of the world — never was there a jjeople that so em- 
braced the light and took it into their minds, took into their hearts 
and i3ut into their blood the light of Christianity and its grace, as 
Ireland did in the day of her conversion. She did not ask him to 
shed one tear of sorrow. She rose up, put her hands in his like a 
fi-iend, took the message from his lips, surrounded him with honor 
and the popular veneration of all the people : and before he died he 
received the singular grace — distinct from all other saints — that he 



J 28 TJie Prose and Poetry oj Ireland. 

alone, among all the other apostles that ever preached the Gospel, 
found a people entirely pagan and left them entirely Christian. 

And now began that wonderful agency of Christian faith, Chiis- 
tian hope, and Christian love which I claim to have formed the 
national character of my race as revealed in their history. They 
took the faith from Patrick : they rose at once into the full j^erfec- 
tiou of that divine faith. They became a nation of priests, bishops, 
monks, and nuns in the verv dav of the first dawnins: of their 
Christianity. The very men whom Patrick ordained priests, and 
whom he consecrated bishops, where the men whom he found 
pagans in the land to which he preached Christianity : the very 
women whom he consecrated to the divine service, jjutting veils 
upon their heads — the very women that rose at once under his 
hand to be the light and glory of Ireland, as Ireland's womanhood 
has been from that day to this — were the maidens and mothers of 
the Iiish race who first heai'd the name of Jesus Christ from the 
lips of St. Patrick. 

Well, I need not tell you the thrice-told tale how the epoch of our 
national historv seems to run in cvcles of 300 vears. For 300 vears 
after Patrick preached the Gospel, Ireland was the holiest, most 
learned, most enhghtened, most glorious country in Christendom. 
From all the ends of the earth students came to study in those 
Irish schools ; thev came not bv thousands, but bv tens of thou- 
sands. They brought back to every nation in Europe the wondrous 
tale of Ireland's sanctity, of Ireland's glory, of Ireland's peace, of 
Ireland's melody, of the holiness of her people and the devotion of 
her priesthood, the immaculate purity and wonderful beauty of the 
womanhood of Ireland. 

After these 300 years passed away began the first great effort which 
proved that Catholic faith was the true essence of the Irish charac- 
ter. The Danes invaded Ireland, and for 300 lono: vears everv vear 
saw fresh amvals, fresh armies poured in upon the land ; and for 
300 vears Ireland was chaUensred to fiofht in defence of her faith, 
and to prove to the world that until the Irish race and the Irish 
character were utterlv destroved that this Catholic faith never 
would cease to exist in the land. The nation — for, thank God, in 
that day we were a nation I — the nation drew the nation's sword. 
Brightly it flashed from that scabbard when it had rested for 300 
years in Christian peace and holiness. Brightly did it flash from 
that scabbard in the day that the Dane landed in Ireland, and the 



Father Thomas N. Bitrke^ O.P, 729 

Celt crossed swords with liim for country, for fatherland, and, niueli 
more, for the altar, for religion, and for God. The fight went on. 
Eyer}^ Talley in the laud tells its tale. There are many among us 
wdio, like myself, haye been born and educated in the old country. 
What is more common, my friends, than to see what is called the 
old ^^rath," or mound, sometimes in the middle of the field, some- 
times on the borders of a bog, sometimes on the hill-side — to see a 
gTcat mound raised up ? The j)eople will tell you that is a ^'rath," 
and Ireland is full of them. Do you know what that means ? 
When the day of the battle was over, when the Danes were con- 
quered, and their bodies were strewn in thousands on the field, the 
Irish gathered them together and made a big hole into which they 
put them, and heaped them up into a great mound, coyered them with 
dirt, and dug scraws, or sods, and coyered them. In every quarter of 
the land are they found. What do they tell ? They tell this : that until 
the day of judgment, until when all the sons of men shall be in the 
yalley of Jehosaj^hat, no man will be able to tell of the thousands, 
and the tens of thousands, and the hundreds of thousands of 
Danish inyaders that came to Ireland only to find a j)lace in the 
grave — only to find a grave. Ah ! gracious God, that we could say 
the same of eyery inyader that eyer polluted the yirgin soil of Erin! 
Well did Brian Boru know how many inches of Irish land it took 

ft/ 

to make a graye for the Dane. Well did the heroic King of ^leath 
— j)erhaps a greater character than eyen Brian himself, or O'Xeill — 
Malachi the Second, of Avhom the poet says, he ^' wore the collar of 
gold which he won from the proud invader,'' a man who with his 
own hand slew three of the kings and leaders and warriors of the 
Danish army — well did he know how many inches of Irish soil it 
took to bury a Dane. For in the Yalley of Glenamada, in Wick- 
low, on a June morning, he found them, and he poured down from 
the hill-tops with his Gaelic and Celtic army upon them. Before 
the sun set oyer the Western Ocean to America — then undiscoyered 
— there were 6,000 Danes stretched dead in the valley. 

Well, my friends, 300 years of war passed away. Do you know 
what it means ? Can you realize it to 3'ourselyes ? There is no na- 
tion upon the face of the earth that has not been ruined by war. 
You had only three years of war here in America, and you know 
how much eyil it did. Just fancy, 300 years of war ! War in 
eyery county, every province, every valley of the land, war eyery- 
where for 300 years I The Irishman had to sleej") with a drawn 



.1. 



/o 



o The Prose and Poetry of Irela^id. 



sword under his pillow, the hilt ready to his hand, and ready to 
spring up at a moment's warning, for the honor of his wife, for the 
honor of his daughter, and the peace of his household and the 
sacred altar of Christ. And yet, at the end of 300 years, two 
thinofs survived. Ireland's Catholic faith was as fresh as it ever 
was, and Ireland's music and minstrelsy was as luxuriant and 
flourishing in the land as if the whole time had been a time of 
peace. How grand a type is he of the faith and genius of our peo- 
ple, how magnificent a type of the Irish character — a man of eighty- 
three years of age, mounted on his noble horse, clad in his grand 
armor, with a battle-axe in one uplifted hand and the crucifix in 
the other — the heroic figure of Brian Boru, as he comes out on 
the pages of Irish history and stands before us, animating his Irish 
army at Clontarf, telling who it was that died for them, and who it 
was they were to fight for ! Before the evening sun set, Ireland, like 
the man wlio shakes a reptile off his hand, shook from her Chris- 
tian bosom that Danish army into the sea, and destroyed them. 
Yet Brian, the immortal Monarch and King of Ireland, was as skilled 
with the harp as he was with the battle-axe ; and in the rash and 
heat of the battle no man stood before him and lived ; that terrible 
mace came down u23on him, and sent him either to Heaven or to Hell. 
In the halls of Kincora, upon the banks of the Shannon, when all 
the minstrels of Ireland gathered together to discuss the ancient 
melodies of the land, there was no hand that could bring out the 
thrill of the gold or silver chords with such skill as the aged hand of 
the man who was so terrible on the battle-field, a Christian warrior 
and minstrel. The very type of the Irish character was that man 
who, after 300 years of incessant war, led the Irish forces on the 
field of Clontarf, from which they swept the Danes into the sea. 

Then came another 300 years of invasion, and Ireland again 
fights for her nationality until the sixteenth century, just 300 years 
ago, and then she was told that after fighting for nearly 400 years 
for her nationality she must begin and fight again, not only for 
that, but for her altar and her ancient faith. The Danes came 
back ; they came to Ireland with the cry, ^^ Down with the cross ! 
Down with the altar ! " Harry the Eighth came to Ireland with the 
same cry ; but the cross and the altar are up to-day in Ireland, and 
Harry the Eighth, I am afraid, is — [Here Father Burke cast his 
eyes downwards]. 

Three hundred long years of incessant war, with 400 years before 



Father Thomas N. Bzcrke, O.P. 731 

of incessant war, making the Irish people 1,000 years engaged in 
actual warfare, TOO years with the Saxon and 300 years before that 
with the Danes I Where is the nation upon the face of the earth 
that has fought for 1,000 years ? Why, one would imagine that 
thev would all be swept awav ! How in the world did thev stand 
it ? We have been fighting a thousand years I the battle begun by 
our forefathers has been continued down — well, down to the year 
before last. The sword of Ireland that was drawn a thousand 
years ago, at the beginning of the ninth century, still remains out 
of the scabbard, and has not been sheathed down to the end of the 
nineteenth century. Did ever anybody hear the like ? And yet 
here we are, glory be to God I Here we are as fresh and hearty as 
Brian Born on the morning of Clontarf, or as Hugh O'Xeill was at 
the Yellow Ford, or as Owen Eoe O'Xeill was at the field of Ben- 
bur b, or as Patrick Sarsfield was in the trenches of Limerick, or 
as Robert Emmet in the dock at Green Street. 

Kow, my friends, let me ask you : What did the Irish people fight 
for during 600 years ? For 300 years they fought with the Danes ; 
for 300 years they fought with England. The Danes invaded and 
desolated the whole land ; the English three times since Harry the 
Eighth — taking it down to the present — landed in Ireland and 
sj)read destruction and desolation upon it. This Irish people fought 
for 600 years. What did they fight for ? They fought for 600 
years for something they had never seen. They never saw Christ 
in the Blessed Eucharist, because it was hidden from them under 
the sacramental veils of bread and "w-ine ; they never saw the 3Iother 
of the God of Heaven ; they never saw the saints and angels of 
heaven ; they never saw the Saviour upon the cross ; and yet for 
that Christ on the cross, for the Saviour in the Tabernacle, and for 
the Mother of Purity in Heaven, and the angels and saints, they 
fous^ht these 600 vears. Thev shed their blood until everv acre of 
land in Ireland was red with the blood of the Irishman that was 
shed for his religion and for his God. 

What does this prove ? Does it not prove that, beyond all other 
races and nations, the Irish character was able to realize the unseen, 
and so to substantiate the things of faith as to make them of far 
greater importance than liberty, than property, than land, than edu- 
cation, than life ? For any man who goes out and says : ^* lamreiidy 
to give up every inch of land I i^ossess ; I am ready to go into exile ; 
I am readv to be sold as a slave in Barbadoes ; I am readv to be 



/ o 



The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 



trampled under foot or to die for Jesus Christ, who is present now, 
though I never saw him" — that man is pre-eminently a man of 
faith. The Irish nation for GOO years answered the Saxon and 
Dane thus : '■'■ We will Gght until we die for our God who is upon 
our altars. " Now, I ask you to find among the nations of the earth 
any one nation that was ever asked to suffer confiscation and rob- 
bery and exile and death for their faith, and who did it, like one 
man, for 600 years ! When you have found that nation, when you 
are able to say to me : ^'Such a people did that, and such another 
people did that," and prove it to me, I will give up what I have 
said — namely, that the Irish are the most formed in character and 
in their faith of any people in the world. As soon as you are 
able to prove to me that any other people ever stood so much for 
their faith, I stand corrected : but until you prove it, I hold that 
the Irish people and race are the most Catholic on the face of the 
earth. 

Now, my friends, if I want any proof of the Irish faculty of 
realizing the unseen, why, my goodness I we are always at it. The 
Irish child, as soon as he arrives at the age of reason, has an in- 
nate facultv of realizins: the unseen. When he comes out of the 
back door, and looks into the field, he imagines he sees a fairy" in 
every bush. If he sees a butterfly upon a stalk in the field, he 
thinks it is a Leprecliami. I remember, when a boy, growing up, 
studying Latin, having made up my mind to be a priest. I was a 
grown lad, and yet there was a certain old archway in Bowling Green, 
in Galway, to which there was attached a tradition. I know there 
are some here that will remember it. It was near the place where 
Lynch, the mayor, hanged his son, hundreds of years ago ; near the 
Protestant churchyard, and that gave it a bad name. At an}- rate, 
grown as I was, learning Latin, knowing everything about the cate- 
chism, and having made u}") my mind to be a priest, I was never 
able to pass under that arch after nightfall without running for 
dear life. This faith, if you will — this Irish superstition, is a faith. 
Remember that wherever superstition — esjoecially of a sj^iritual cha- 
racter — exists there is proof that there is a character formed to 
realize the Unseen. 

Xow, my friends, consider the next great imj)ress of the Christian 
character stamped upon the Irish people. The apostle says : '* We 
are saved by hope." The principle of hope imposes confidence in 
the divine promises of God, in the certainty of their fulfilment — a 



FatJier ThoiJias N. Biirkc^ 0,P. y2>o 

confidence ueyer shaken, tliat never loses iteelf, that never loosens 
its hold upon God, that never for an infitant yields to depression or 
despair. I ask you if that virtue is found stamped ujx>n our Irish 
character ? Tell me, first of all, as I wish to prove it, during this 
thousand years' fighting for Ireland was there ever a day in the 
history of our nation when Ireland lost courage and struck her 
flag ? That flag was never pulled down. It has been defeated on 
many a field : it has been dragged in the dust — in the dust stained 
with the blood of Ireland's l^est and most faithful sons : it has been 
washed in the accursed waters of the Boyne : but never has the 
nation for a single hour hesitated to lift that prostrate banner 
and fling it out to the breeze of heaven, and j^roclaim that Ireland 
was still full of hoi>e. 

Scotland had as glorious a banner as otirs. The Scotch banner 
was hatiled down upon the plains of Culloden, and the Scots, chi- 
valrous as their fathers were, never raised that flag to the mast- 
head again : it has disapi)eared. It is no longer •'Ireland and 
Scotland and England," as it used to be ; it is ** Great Britain and 
Ireland.'' Why is it ••Great Britain and Ireland" ? Why is it 
not simply ** Great Britain '' ? Why is the sovereign called the 
'' Queen of Great Britain and Ireland " ? Because Ireland refused 
to give up her hope, and Ireland never acknowledged that she was 
eyer anything else except a nation. Well, my friends, it was that 
principle of hope that sustained our fathers during those thousand 
years they kept their faith. And the word of Scripture, as recorded 
in the book of Tobias, is this : when the Jews were banished into 
Babylonish captivity — when the peoj)le of every nation came to 
them and said, ** Why shonld you be i)ersecuted on account of your 
God ? Give him up. Why do you refuse to conform to the laws 
and usages of the people around you ? Give up your God. Don't 
be making fools of yourselves ** — the Jews said : •'• Si>eak not so, for 
we are the children of the saint£ ; we know and hope in our God. 
He never forsakes those who never change theii^ faith in him.'" 
This is the inspired language of Scriptui*e, and well the Irish knew 
it ; and, therefore, as long as Irishmen kept their faith to theii' God 
and to their altar, so they wisely and very constantly refused to lay 
down their hope. 

Christian character is made up of Hope as well as of Faith and of 
Love. If Ireland laid down her hope in despair, that liigh note of 
Christian character would never be in her. The Irish people never 



734 ^^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

knew tliey were beaten. Year after year, one day out and another 
day in, while the nations aronnd were amazed at the bull-dog tena- 
city of that people with two ideas — namely, that they were Catholic 
and a nation— Ireland never lost sight of her hope. What followed 
from this ? What was the consequence of this ? Enshrined in the 
national heart, and in the national aims, there has been — wherever 
the Irishman exists there has been the glory upon his head of the*' 
man whose courage m the hour of danger could be relied upon. 
Every nation in Europe has had a taste of what Ireland's courage is. 
They fought in the armies of Germany, in those Austrian armies, 
where ten thousand Irishmen for thirty years were every day en- 
camped in the field. They fought in the armies of Spain ; ten thou- 
sand Irishmen encamped in the field. They fought in the armies, once 
so glorious, of Erance — thirty thousand Irishmen, with Patrick Sars- 
field at their head. Did they ever turn their backs and run away ? 
Never. At the battle of Ramillies, when the Erench were beaten, 
and they were flying before the English, the English in the heat of 
their pursuit met a division of the Erench army. Ah ! that division 
was the Irish Brigade. They stopped them in the full tide of their 
victory, and they drove them back and took the colors out of their 
hands, and marched off after the French army. If any of you go to 
Europe, it will be worth your while to go to an old Elemish town 
called Ypres. In the cathedral you will find flags and banners 
lying about. If you will ask the sexton to explain these flags to 
you (perhaps you will have to give him a sixpence), he will come to 
one of these flags and say, '^ That was the banner that the Irish took 
from the English in the very hour of their victory at Eamillies.'' 
King Louis was going to turn and fly at the battle of Eontenoy, but 
Marshal Saxe told him to wait for five minutes until he should see 
more. ^^ Your majesty, don't be in such a hurry; wait a minute; 
it will be time enough to run away when the Irish run." Calling 
out to Lord Clare, he said : '^ There are your men, and there are 
the Saxons." The next moment there was a hurra heard over the 
field. In the Irish language they cried out, ^' Eemember Limerick, 
and down ^vith the Sassenach ! " That column of Englishmen 
melted before the charge of the Irish just as the snow melts in a 
ditch when the sun shines upon it. When a man loses hope he 
loses courage ; he gives it up. " It is a bad job," he says ; '^ there 
is no use going on any further." But as long as he can keep his 
courage up, with the lion in his heart, so long you may be sui-e there 



Father Thomas N, Burke, O.P. 735 

is some grand j^rinciple of hope in liim. Ours is a race that has 
almost 'Sloped against hopCo" I say that comes from our Cathohc 
rehgion — the Cathohc rehgion that tells us : " You are down to-day, 
don't be afraid ; hold on ; lean upon your God. You will be up 
to-morrow. " 

The third grand feature of the Christian is Loye — a love both 
strong and tender ; a love that first finds its vent in G-od, with all 
of the energies of the spirit and the heart and soul going straight to 
God, crushing aside whatever is in its path of the temjotations for 
men, and in faith and hoj)e and love making straight for God. 
Trampling upon his passions, the man of love goes straight towards 
God ; and in that journey to God he will allow nothing to hinder 
him. No matter what sacrifice that God calls upon him to make, 
he is ready to make it ; for the principle of sacrifice is divine love. 
Most assuredly, never did her God call upon Erin for a sacrifice that 
Erin did not make it. 

God sent to Ireland the messenger of his wrath, the wretched 
Elizabeth. She called upon Ireland for Ireland's liberty and Ire- 
land's land, and the people gave up both rather than forsake their 
God. God sent Ireland another curse in Oliver Cromwell, a man 
upon whom I would not lay an additional curse for any considera- 
tion, because for a man to lay an additional curse on Oliver Crom- 
well would be like throwing an additional drop of water on a 
drowned rat. Cromwell called upon the Irish people, and said : 
"Become Protestant and you will have your land; you will have 
your possessions, your wealth. Eemain Catholic and take your 
choice — 'Hell or Connaught.' " Ireland made the sacrifice, and 
on the 25th day of May, 1651, every Catholic supjiosed to be in Ire- 
land crossed the Shannon, and Avent into the wild wastes of Con- 
naught rather than give up his faith. 

William of Orange came to Ireland, and he called upon the Irish 
to renounce their faith or submit to a new j)ersecution — new penal 
laws. Ireland said : " I will fight against injustice as long as I can ; 
but when the arm of the nation is j^aralyzed, and I can no longer 
wield the sword, one thing I will hold in spite of death and hell, 
and that is my glorious Catholic faith." If they had not loved God, 
would they have done this ? Would they have suffered this ? If 
they did not j)rize that faith, would they have preferred it to their 
liberty, their wealth, and their very lives ? N"o, no ! Patrick sent 
the love of God and the Virgin Mother deep into the hearts of tb.o 



7^6 The Prose anei 1 oetry oj Ireland. 

Irish, and in our Irish spirit and in the blood of the nation it has 
remained to this dav. TTherever an Irishman true to his country, 
true to his religion, exists, there do you find a lover of Jesus Christ 
and of Mary. 

More than this, their love for their neighbor shows this in two 
magnificent ways — the fidelity of the Irish husband to the Irish 
wife, the Irish son to the Irish father and mother, and of the Irish 
father to his children. Where is there a nation in whom those traits 
are more maofuificentlv brousfht out ? England told Ireland, a few 
years ago, that the Irish husbands might divorce their Irish wives. 
Xothinsr was heard from one end of the land to the other but a loud 
shout of a laugh. '' Oh ! listen to that. So a man can separate 
from his wife. The curse of Cromwell on you I *' 

Eno-land told the fathers of Ireland that it was a felon v to send 
their children to school. And yet never did the Irish fathers neglect 
that sacred dutv of education. When, actuallv, it was found that a 
man was sendinsr his children to school, he was liable to a fine and 
imprisonment. In spite of the imprisonment and the fine of their 
people, the Irish peojDle, who never have been serfs, refused to bo the 
servants of ignorance, and Ireland was always an educated nation. 
In the worst day of our persecution — in the worst day of our misery 
— there was one man that was always respected in the land next to 
the priest, and that was the ^^]3oor scholar,*' with a few books under 
his arm, with perhaps three halfpence worth of clothes upon him, 
going from one farm-house to the other, with a ^*G-od save all 
here I '' He got the best in the house, the best bed, the cosiest 
place in the straw chair. And the childi-en ware all called in from 
the neighboring houses and from the village. He could spend a week 
from one house to another. Every house in Ireland was turned into 
a shool-house at one time or another. Hence I have known men, 
old men of my own family, who remembered 1782. I have seen them, 
when a child, in their old age, and these men brought up in those days 
of penal persecution and misery, with its enforced ignorance, were 
first-class controversialists. They knew how to read and write ; they 
knew Dr. Gallagher's sermons by heart. There was no Protestant 
bishop or Protestant minister in Ireland that could hold his ground 
five minutes before them ; and the probability was that after having 
convinced his reason and opened his eyes to the truth, they were 
equally prepared to blacken both his eyes I 

The nation's love, the people's love for that which was next to 



Father Thomas N. Bitrke, O.P. y2)7 

their God, the very next, is the love of a man for his country. Is 
there any laud so loved as Ireland by its peojole ? Sarsfield, dying, 
upon the plains of Landen, is only a fair type of the ordinary Irish- 
man. There was many a good man, as heroic a man, in the ranks 
of the Irish Brigade that fell that day as Sarsfield, who, in full ca- 
reer of victory, at the head of Lord Clare's Dragoons, following the 
British army as they fled from him, William of Orange in their 
ranks flying and showing the broad of his back to Sarsfield, as, 
sword in hand, gleaming like the sword of God's justice, the Irish 
hero was in full chase, when a musket-ball struck him to the heart, 
and he fell dying from his horse. The blood was welling out hot 
from his very heart ; he took the full of his hand of his heart's blood, 
and, raising his eyes to heaven, he cried : '^ Oh I that tliis was shed 
for Ireland.-' A true Irishman I Where was the nation that was 
ever so loved ? In the three hundred years of persecution, take the 
^^Bhreathair," the old Irish friar, the Dominicans and Francis- 
cans, who were of the first families of the land — the O'Neills, the 
Maguires, the McDonnells, the McDermotts, down in Galway ; the 
Frenches, the Lynches, the Blakes, and the Burkes. These fair 
youths used to be actually smuggled out by night and sent off the 
coast of Ireland to Eome, to France, and to Spain, to study there. 
Enjoying all the delicious climates of those lovely countries, sur- 
rounded by honor, leading easy lives, filling the time with the study 
and intellectual pleasures of the priesthood, every man felt uneasy. 
To use the old familiar phrase, "'^ They were like a hen on a hot 
griddle," as long as they were away from Ireland, although they 
knew that in Ireland they were liable to be thrown into prison or be 
subjected to death. During Cromwell's persecution, if one fell in 
the ranks, another stepped into his place. Of six hundred Domini- 
cans in Ireland at the time of Queen Elizabeth, there were only 
four remained after she passed her mild hand over them. Where 
did they come from ? From out of the love of Ireland and the 
heart and blood of her best sons. They would not be satisfied 
with honors and dignities in other lands. No. Their hearts were 
hungry until they caught sight of the green soil and stood among 
the shamrocks once more. 

And now I say to you, and all the history of our nation j)roYes 
it — I say that the Irish race to-day is not one bit unlike the race of 
two or three hundred years ago. We are the same people ; and wh}'- 
should we not be? We have their blood ; we have their, names. 



738 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

their faith, tlieir traditions, their love. I ask you, Is not the Irish- 
man of to-day a man of faith, hope, and love ? Who built this 
beautiful churcli ? Who erected this mao:nificent altar ? Who made 
the place for Father Mooney's ' voice, pleasantly tinged with tlie old 
Irish roll and brogue ? He has a little touch of it, and he is not 
ashamed of it. I remember once when a lady in England said to 
me : '^ The moment you spoke to me, Father, I at once perceived 
you were an Irishman; you have got what they call the brogue." 
"^ Yes, madam,*'* said I, '^ my father had it, and my mother had it ; 
but my grandfather and my grandmother did not have it ; because 
they did not speak the English at all." "Yes," I said, "I have 
the brogue ; and I am full of hope that when my soul comes to 
heaven's gate, and I ask St. Peter to admit me, I think when ^ he 
hears the touch of the brogue on my tongue he will let me in." 
But I ask who has built this church ? who has covered America 
with our glorious Catholic churches ? All credit and honor to every 
Catholic race. All honor and credit to the Catholic Frenchman 
and to the Catholic German. The Germans of this countrv, those 
brave men, those sons of Catholics, those descendants of the great 
Eoman emperors that upheld for so many centuries the sceptre in 
defence of the altar — they have done great things in this country ; 
but, my friends, it is Ireland, after all, that has done the lion's 
share of it. What brought the Irishman to America, so bright, so 
cheerful, so full of hope ? The undying hope that was in him ; 
the confidence that, wherever he went, as long as he was a true Ca- 
tholic, and faithful to the traditions of the Church to which he be- 
longs, and to the nation from which he sprang, that the hand of 
God would help liim and bring him up to the surface, sooner or 
later. And the Irishman of to-day, like his nation, is as hopeful as 
any man in the past time. 

Have we not a proof of their love ? Ah ! my friends, who is it 
that remembers the old father and mother at home ? Who, among 
the emigTants and strangers coming to this land, whose eye fills 
with the ready tear as soon as he hears the familiar voice reminding 
us of those long in their graves, as soon as their names are men- 
tioned ? Who is it that is onlv waitins: to earn his first ten dollars 
in order to send five home to his aged father and mother ? Who is 
it that would as soon think of cutting out his tongue from the 
roots or to take the eyes out of his head as abandon the wife of his 

1 The pastor of St. Bridget's Church, New York, in which this lecture was delivered. 



Father TJioiiias X. Bicrke, OJ^. 739 

bosom ? The true Catliolic Irislimau. These things are matters of 
obserTation and experience, just as the past is a matter of history. 
And therefore I say that you and I are not ashamed of the men that 
are in their graves, even though they lie in martyr graves. As wo 
are true to them, so shall our children be true to us. As we 
were true to them, so we shall continue to be true to them. 
That is the secret of Ireland's power for the faith that has never 
changed, the hope that never despairs, the love that is never extin- 
guished ; I say the secret of Ireland's power is this mighty love 
that lifts itself uj) to God. Dispersed and scattered as we are, that 
love that makes all meet as brethren ; that love that brings the tear 
to the eve at the mention of the old soil : that love that makes one 
little word of Irish ring like music in our ears ; that love that makes 
us treasure the traditions of our history ; that love makes tis a power 
still ; and we are a power, though divided by three thousand miles 
of Atlantic Ocean's waves rolling between America and Ireland at 
home. But the Irishman in America knows that his brother at 
home looks to him with hope, and the Irishman in Ireland knows 
that his brother in America is only waiting to do what he can for 
the old land. 

What is it you can do ? That is the question. I answer, be true 
to your religion, be true to your fatherland, be true to your families 
and yourselves, be true to the glorious EejDublic that opened her 
arms to receive vou and srive vou the risfhts of citizenship. Be ti*ue 
to America ; she has already had a sample of Avhat kind of men she 
received when she opened her arms to the Irish, They gave her a 
taste of it at Fredericksburg, fighting her battles ; they gave her a 
sample of it all through those terrible campaigns ; she knows what 
they are and begins to prize it. Xever fear, when you add to yotir 
Irish brains and intellect by education, and to your Irish minds by 
temperance, and to your Irish hands by the spirit of industry and 
self-respect. Be men. Even in this land, I say, be Irishmen. Then 
the day will come when this great Irish element in America will 
enter larsfelv into the council-chambers of this srreat nation, and 
will shape her policy, will form her ideas and her thoughts in a 
great measure, pressing them in the strong mould of cathohcity and 
of justice. And when that day comes to us I would Hke to see who 
would lay a " wet finger '' on Ireland. This is what I mean when I 
tell you what Ireland hopes from America. Ireland's bone and 
sinew is in America, and it is in the intelliarence of her children in 



740 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

America, and of every principal virtue to the influence that we attach 
to that virtue, and that enhghtenment, and to that intelligence and 
talent, that will assuredly bring in this countr}^ the help that Ire- 
land looks for. 

Suppose that for Ireland some coercion bill is going to pass, and 
some blackguard is going to trample upon the old nation. If the 
Irishman knows the position of his countrymen in America, he will 
say, ^^ Hold on, my friend ; don't begin until you get a despatch 
from Washington." '^^ Hold on, my friend; there are Irish Sena- 
tors in the great Senate ; there are Irish Congressmen in the great 
Congress ; there are Irishmen in the Cabinet ; there are Irishmen 
behind the guns ; there are Irishmen writing out j^olitical warnings 
and protocols ; there are Irish ambassadors at the foreign courts ; 
learn what they have to say before you tramjple upon us." This is 
what I mean. I speak from this altar as a priest and an Irishman. 
I am not afraid to say it. I don't care if it went under the very 
nose of Queen Victoria and Judge Keogh. 

And now, my friends, you know that, whatever way a priest may 
begin his lecture, when he goes through it he always ends with a 
kind of exhortation. In the name of God, let us make a resolution 
here to-night to be all that I have described to you — all an Irish- 
man ought to be — and leave the rest to Cod. 



s 



MISCELLANY. 

IT was our earnest desire to make this Miscellany mucli fuller, 
but the vokime has already so grown on our hands that the in- 
tended number of pages is now reached, and we are reluctantly 
forced, at least in the present edition, to omit many a poetical 
^'tiling of beauty " which we had carefully culled from the wide, 
rich, and blooming field of Irish literature. 

SAMUEL LOVER. 

Samuel Lover was born in Dublin in 1797, and died in 1868. He wrote some 
excellent songs and sketches ; but, as a whole, his writings are not of a very high 
order. " The Angel's Whisper " is the most exquisite thing that ever came from 
his pen. 

THE AJS^GEL'S whisper. 

A beautiful belief prevails in Ireland that when a child smiles in its sleep it is ''talk- 
ing -with the angels." This is but oue trait of the wonderfully spiritual nature of the Irish. 
people. 

A BABY was sleeping, its mother was weeping. 
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ; 

And the tempest was swelling round the fisherman's dwelling. 
And she cried, ^^ Dermot darling, oh ! come back to me." 

Her beads while she numberd the baby still slumber'd, 
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee. 
*' Oh ! blest be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning; 
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee." 

'^ And while they are keeping bright watch o'er thy sleeping. 
Oh ! pray to them softly, my baby, with me, 
And say thou wouldst rather they'd watch o'er thy father ; 
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee." 

The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning. 
And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see. 

And, closely caressing her child with a blessing, — » 

Said "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee." 

741 



742 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

SIR CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 

For over a third of a century Charles Gavan Duffy has been one of the most 
prominent men in Ireland. He has made his mark in both literature and poli- 
tics. Some years ago Mr. Duffy was knighted. 

A LAY SEEMOK. 

Beothee, do you love your brother ? 

Brother, are you all you seem ? 
Do you live for more than living ? 

Has your life a law and scheme ? 
Are you prompt to bear its duties 

As a brave man may beseem ? 

Brother, shun the mist exhaling 

From the fen of pride and doubt; 
Neither seek the house of bondage 

Walling straitened souls about — 
Bats ! who from their narrow spy-iiole 

Cannot see a world without. 

Anchor in no stagnant shallow ; 

Trust the wide and wondrous sea, 
Where the tides are fresh for ever, 

And the mighty currents free ; 
There, perchance, young Columbus ! 

Your new world of truth may be. 

Favor will not make deserving, 

(Can the sunshine brighten clay ?) 
Slowly must it grow to blossom. 

Fed by labor and delay. 
And the fairest bud of promise 

Bears the taint of quick decay. 

You must strive for better guerdons. 

Strive to he the thing you'd seem ; 
Be the thing that God hath made you, 

Channel for no borrowed stream ; 
He hath lent you mind and conscience. 

See you travel in their beam ! 



Miscellany. 74^ 

See you scale life's misty highlands 

By this light and flowing truth, 
And with bosom braced with labor. 

Breast them in your manly youth ; 
So, when age and care have found you, 

Shall the downward path be smooth. 

Fear not on that rugged highway. 

Life may want its lawful zest ; 
Sunny glens are in the mountain. 

Where the weary feet may rest. 
Cooled in streams that gush for ever 

From a loving mother's breast. 

" Simple heart and simple pleasures," 
So they write life's golden rule. 
Honor won by supple baseness. 

State that crowns a cankei'ed fool. 
Gleam as gleam the gold and purple 
On a hot and rancid pool. 

Wear no show of wit, or science, 

But the gems you've won and weighed ; 

Thefts, like ivy on a ruin, 

Make the rifts they seem to shade ; 

Are you not a thief and beggar 
In the rarest spoils arrayed ? 

Shadows deck a sunny landscape, 

Making brighter all the bright ; 
So, my brother, care and danger 

On a loving nature light. 
Bringing all its latent beauties 

Out upon the common sight. 

Love the things that God created, 

Make your brother's need your care ; 
Scorn and hate repel God's blessings. 

But where love is tliey are there, 
As the moonbeams light the waters. 

Leaving rock and sandbank bare. 



74-1 The Prose and Poetry oj Ireland, 

Thus, my brother, gi*ow and flouiish. 
Fearing none and loving all ; 

For the true man needs no patron. 
He shall climb and never crawl. 

Two things fashion their own channel — 
The strons" man and the waterfall. 



JOHX SAVAGE. LL.D. 

JoEN' Savage was bom in Dabhn, Ireland, in 1828. He was one of the most 
active of the •'Young Ireland '' leaders of '48, but succeeded in escaping to 
America the same year. For nearly thirty years Mr. Savage's graceful pen has 
nut been idle. As a poet he ranks high. His chief works are : *• Xinety-eight 
and Forty-eight,'' "The Life* of Andrew Johnson," "Sibyl," a tragedy, and 
"Poems, Lyrical and Dramatic," lately published in one volume. In 1875 
St John's CoUege, Fordham. X. Y., conferred upon him the honorarv degree 
of LL.D. 

MIXA. 

MiXA'S eyes are dark as sorrow, 
Mina's eves are bright as morrow — 

Morrow symbols ho23e alway — 
And a sonl-lit radiance flashes 
Out between their silken lashes 
As from ont the sable fringes of the midnight leaps the day. 

Mina's hair is black as madness,* 
Mina's hair is soft as sfladness — 

Gladness, trne, is soft and low — 
And its heavy richness ponders 
O'er her brow as stndent wanders 
By some bardic temple, wordless ^-ith the homage he'd bestow. 

Mina's brow as clear as amber, 
Miua's brow as calm as slumber. 

Where God lives in what seems dead. 
And its gentleness is giving 
E'er a mute excuse for living 
On in passive grandeur, careless of the fame its thoughts might 
spread. 



Miscellany. 745 

Mina's mouth is ripe as study, 
Mina's mouth is full and ruddy, 

Tempting as the August peach, 
And its sweet contentment, routing 
Off a melancholy pouting, 
Welcomes laughter to the portals where the trivial ne'er can reach. 



Mina's heart as pure as childhood, 
Mina's heart as fresh as wild wood. 

Where each tendril dials God, 
And its radiant blessings, centred 
On her face, have ever entered 
Through her eyes those happy mortals who within their mission 
trod. 



Mina's hand is sure to capture, 
Mina's touch is weird, its rapture 

Is electric, seeming numb. 
And her spirit on the minute 
Thrills you with the calm joy in it. 
And, vibrating you to eloquence, compels you to be dumb. 



A XEW LIFE. 

Is it fancy ? am I dreaming ? 

Do I tread the realms of faery ? 
Do my hopings mock my wild heart witli the echoes of itself ? 

Is my soul lit by the beaming 

Of your radiant face, fair Lilla ? 
Or am I witched like jDilgrim by the lagoon's midnight elf ? 

Sweet words are singing o'er me, 

And beside me and before me. 
Yet I fear to think them truthful lest I wake to find mo wrong, 

And the bliss of the first minute 

When my heart caught them within it 
Would woo me to eternal sleep to ever dream such song. 





746 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

God is loving, God is jealous, 

And we're ever mortal fashioned 
In the likeness of the Moulder, and our sympathies so bent ; 

Can my words soever zealous, 

Or my love be too impassioned ? 
No ; I cannot outstrip nature, though I fail to be content. 

I have had my dreams of glory, 

And have quaffed my youthful chalice ; . 

What bitter dregs lay thickening underneath its starry foam ! 
And my life broke like the story 
Of that Oriental palace 

Whose magic marble fabric sank and left no trace of home. 

In my thoughts' dim, lonely prison, 

Where I dwelt, a voice has risen. 
As the angels unto Peter, giving comfort, hope, and cheer, 

And so full of light's the tremor — 

It now pulses through the dreamer — 
He'd bless the thought that chains him to have that angel near. 

Was your heart as sympathetic 

That it caught my words unspoken 
As they welled up, seeking utterance, love-confused to very fear ? 

Was it you that said, "I love thee," 

Was it I that said ^'\ love thee," 
Or did we each the other's heart unburden to the ear ? 

When you twined your arms about me. 

Saying life was dark without me ; 
That I was the one comforter you prayed of God to give ; 

That among the thousands fleeing 

Past you knew as that being. 
My heart beneath the revelation paused to say, " I live." 

There's a strange new life upon me. 

With a clarion-toned suffusion 
Of Joy that cannot sound itself with words of mortal speech ; 

But it is no fancy won me, 

No mere student-bred delusion, 
'Tis thy vatic words that make a dual future in my reach. 



Aliscellany. 747 

What a bounteously decreeing 

Gift hath love when it, receiving 
Love for love, transfigures us to things undreamed before ! 

Xow I've two lives in my being. 

You have two hves in your Hviug, 
And yet we have but one dear life between tis evermore. 

BRP.ASTIXG THE WORLD. 

Maxt years have bui^t upon my forehead. 
Years oi gloom and heavy-freighted grief. 

And I have stood them as against the horrid, 
Angiy gales the Peak of Teneriffe. 

Yet if all the world had storm and sorrow. 

You had none, my better self, Lenore ; 
My toil was as the midnight seeking morrow. 

You, moon-like, lit the way I struggled o'er. 

Though as a cataract my soul went lashing 
Itself through ravines desolate and gray. 

You make me see a beauty in the flashing, 
Aud with your presence diamonded the spray. 

Then, Lenore, though we have grown much older. 
Though your eyes were brighter when we met, 

Still let us feel shoulder unto shoulder 
And heart to heart above the world yet ! 



JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 

JoKJf Boyle 0* Rftt.t. t was bom in the county of Meath, Ireland, in 1844. 
After a bold, eventful, and somewhat romantic career, he came to the United 
States in 1869. He has published " Songs from the Southern Seas." He is now 
the able and accomplished editor of the PQot, Boston, Mass. 

A XATIOX'S TEST. 
[Bead at the O'ConneU Centennial in Boston, on Aogost 6, 187a.] 

A x ATi02f's greatness lies in men, not acres ; 

One master-mind is worth a million hands. 
No kingly robes have marked the planet-shakers. 

But Samson-strength to burst the ages' bands. 



74^ The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

The might of empire gives no crown supernal — 

Athens is here, bnt where is Macedon ? 
A dozen Kves make Greece and Kome eternal, 

And England's fame might safely rest on one. 

Here test and text are drawn from nature's preaching : 

Afric and Asia — half the rounded earth — 
In teeming lives the solemn truth are teaching 

That insect- millions may have human birth. 
Sun-kissed and fruitful, every clod is breeding 

A petty life, too small to reach the eye : 
So must it be, with no man thinking, leading ; 

The generations creep their course and die. 

Hapless the lands, and doomed amid the races. 

That give no answer to this royal test ; 
Their toiling tribes will droop ignoble faces, 

Till earth in pity takes them back to rest. 
A vast monotony may not be evil. 

But God's light tells us it cannot be good ; 
Valley and hill have beauty, but the level 

Must bear a shadeless and a stagnant brood. 

I bring the touchstone, motherland, to tliee, 

And test thee trembling, fearing thou thouldst fail 

If fruitless, sonless, thou wert proved to be. 
Ah ! what would love and memory avail ? 

Brave land ! God has blest thee ! 

Thy strong heart I feel 
As I touch thee and test thee. 
Dear land ! As the steel 
To the magnet flies upward, so rises thy breast 
Witli a motherly pride to the touch of the test. 

See ! she smiles beneath the touchstone, looking on her distant 

youth. 
Looking down her line of leaders and of workers for the truth. 
Ere the Teuton, ISTorseman, Briton left tlie primal woodland 

spring, 
When their rule was might and rapine, and their law a painted 

king ; 



Miscellany. 749 

When the sun of art and learning still Avas in the Orient ; 
When the pride of Babylonia under Cyrus' hand was shent ; 
When the Sphinx's introverted eye was fresh with Egypt's guilt ; 
When the Persian bowed to Athens ; when the Parthenon was 

built ; 
When the Macedonian climax closed the commonwealths of Greece ; 
When the wrath of Roman manhood burse on Tarquin for Lu- 

crece — 
Then was Erin rich in knowledge, thence from out her Ollamh's 

store — 
Kenned to-day by students only — grew her ancient SencJius More ; 
Then were reared her mighty builders, who made temples to the 

sun ; 
There they stand — the old round-towers — showing how their work 

was done. 
Twice a thousand years upon them, shaming all our later art — 
Warning fingers raised to tell us we must build with rev'rent heart. 

Ah ! we call thee Mother Erin ! Mother thou in right of years ; 

Mother in the large fruition ; mother in tne joys and tears. 

All thy life has been a symbol ; we can only read a part. 

God will flood thee yet with sunshine for the woes that drench thy 

heart. 
All thy life has been symbolic of a human mother's life ; 
Youth, with all its dreams, has vanished, and the tnivail and the 

strife 
Are upon thee in the present ; but thy work until to-day 
Still has been for truth and manhood, and it shall not pass away ! 
Justice lives, though judgment lingers — angels' feet are heavy 

shod — 
But a planet's years are moments in th' eternal day of God. 



What says the stranger to such a vitality ? 
What says the statesman to this nationality ? 
Flung on the shore of a sea of defeat. 
Hardly the swimmers have sprung to their feet 
When the nations are thrilled by a clarion-word, 
And Burke, the philosopher-statesman, is heard. 



750 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland. 

"When shall his equal be ? Down from the stellar height 

Sees he the planet and all on its girth — 
India, Columbia, and Europe ; his eagle-sight 

Sweeps at a glance all the wrong upon earth. 
Eaces or sects were to him a profanity — 

Hindoo and Xegro and Celt were as one ; 
Large as mankind was his splendid humanity, 

Large in its record the work he has done. 

"What need to mention men of minor note 

When there be minds that all the heights attain ? 
What school-boy knoweth not the hand that wrote 

'^ Sweet Auburn, loveliest Tillage of the j^lain ?" 
What man that speaketh English e'er can hf t 

His voice 'mid scholars who hath missed the lore 
Of Berkeley, Curran, Sheridan, and Swift, 

The art of Foley, and the songs of Moore ? 
Grattan and Elood and Emmet — where is he 

That hath not learned respect for such as these P 
Who loveth humor and hath yet to see 

Lover and Prout and Lever and Maclise ? 

Great men grow gi-eater by the lajise of time ; 

We know those least whom we have seen the latest. 
And they ^mongst those whose names have grown, sublime 

Who worked for human liberty are greatest. 

And now for one who allied will to work. 

And thought to act, and burning speech to thought ; 

Who gained the prizes that were seen by Burke. 
Burke felt the wrong — O'Connell felt, and foiiglit. 

Ever the same — from boyhood up to death. 

His race was crushed, his people were defamed ; 

He found the sj^ark, and fanned it with his breath. 
And fed the fire, till all the nation flamed ! 

He roused the farms, he made the serf a yeoman ; 

He drilled his milhons, and he faced the foe ; 
But not with lead or steel he struck the foeman — 

Reason the sword, and human riofht the blow I 



Miscellany. 751 

He fouglit for home, but no land-limit bounded 
O'Connell's faitli, nor curbed his sympathies ; 

All TVT0U2: to libertv must be confounded. 

Till men were chainless as the winds and seas. 

He fought for faith, but with no narrow spirit ; 

With ceaseless hand the bigot laws he smote ; 
One chart, he said, all mankind should inherit — 

The right to worship and tJie right to vote. 

Always the same, but Yet a oiintina: prism : 

In wit, law, statecraft still a master-hand ; 
An •• uncrowned king," whose people^s love was chrism, 

His title — Llbekatoe of his Laxd I 

"His heart's in Eome, his spirit is in heaven '" — 
So runs the old song that his peoj^le sing ; 
A tall round-tower they builded in Glasnevin, 
Fit Irish headstone for an Irish kinsr ! 



TO-DAY. 

OxLY from day to day 
The life of a wise man runs ; 

What matter if seasons far away 
Have gloom or have double suns ? 

To climb the nni-eal path, 

We stray from the roadway here ; 
We swim the rivers of wrath 

And tunnel the hills of fear. 

Our feet on the torrent's brink. 
Our eyes on the cloud afar. 

We fear the things we think, 
Instead of the things that are. 

Like a tide our work should rise. 
Each later wave the best ; 
'' To-day is a king in disguise,*' 
To-day is the special test. 



752 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 

Like a sawyer's work is life — 
The present makes the flaw, 

And the only field for strife 
Is the inch before the saw. 



AUBREY DE VERE. 

Aubrey de Verb, son of Sir Aubrey de Vere, was born at Curragh Chase, 
county of Limerick, Ireland, in the first quarter of the present century. He was 
educated at one of the Enghsh universities, and afterwards made a deep study of 
Irish history and hterature. For over a third of a century his has been a busy, 
fruitful pen. His chief works are "Alexander the Great," a dramatic poem ; 
" Irish Odes and other Poems" ; " May Carols" ; *' St. Thomas of Canterbury," 
a dramatic poem ; '*The Legends of St. Patrick" ; and "The Infant Bridal 
and other Poems." Mr. de Vere is a convert to the Catholic faith. He is one of 
the most widely-known and highly-respected Irish writers of the present day. 

MAY. 

Creep slowly up the willow-wand, 
Young leaves, and in your lightness 

Teach us that spirits which despond 
May wear their own j)ure brightness 

Into new sweetness slowly dip, 

May ! advance, yet linger, 
Nor let the ring too swiftly slip 

Down that new-plighted finger. 

Thy bursting blooms, Spring ! retard. 

While thus thy raptures press on ; 
How many a joy is lost or marred, 

How many a lovely lesson ! 

For each new grace conceded, those. 

The earlier loved, are taken ; 
In death their eyes must violets close 

Before the rose can waken. 

Ye woods, with ice-threads tingling late. 

Where late we heard the robin. 
Your chants that hour but antedate 

When autumn winds are sobbing. 



jMiscellaiiy. 75^ 

Ye gummy buds, in silken sheath, 

Hang back, content to glisten : 
Hold in, Earth I thy charmed breath ; 

Thou air, be still, and listen I 

THE COXSTELLATIOX OF THE PLOUGH. 

Type of celestial labor, toil divine. 

That nightly downward from the glistening skies 

Showerest thy light on these exjiectant eyes ! 

Around thee in their stations ever shine 

Full many a radiant shape and emblemed sign — 

Swords, sceptres, crowns, bright tresses, galaxies 

Of all that soarinof fancv can devise, 

Yet none, methinks, so truly great as thine. 

On, ever on ! while He who guides thee flings 

His golden grain along the azure way, 

Do thou thy sleepless work, and, toiling, say : 

' men I so sedulous in U'ivial things. 

Why faint amid vour loftier labors ? Wliv 

Forofet the starrv seed and harvests of the skv ? '' 



SIR AUBREY DE VERE. 

Sm Aubrey de Vere was bom at Curragh Chase, county of Limerick, in 
1788, and died in 1846. His chief works are : '"Marv Tudor." a drama: 
'* Jnlian, the Apostate." a drama ; "The Duke of Veronica,*' a drama : and a 
volume of excellent •* Sonnets." He was a most estimable Irish gentleman. 

COLUMBUS. 

He was a man whom danger could not daunt, 

Xor sophistry j^erplex, nor pain subdue — 
A stoic, reckless of the world's vain taunt. 

And steeled the path of honor to pursue ; 
So, when by all deserted, still he knew 

How best to soothe the heart-sick, or confront 
Sedition, schooled with equal eye to view 

The fi'owns of grief and the base pangs of want. 



754 '^^^^ Prose and Poetry of Irela7id, 

But when lie saw that promised laud arise 
In all its rare and bright varieties, 

Loveher than fondest fancy ever trod, 

Then softening nature melted in his eyes ; 

He knew his fame was full, and blessed his God, 

And fell upon his face and kissed the virgin sod ! 



KEY. BROTHEE AZARIAS. 

Rev. Beothee, Azarias, the learned Professor of Philosophy and English 
Literature in Rock Hill College, Maryland, is a true Celt. His "' Essay on a 
Philosophy of Literature " is an excellent work. Though more of the philosopher 
and critic than poet, he has, nevertheless, thrown off some very pretty pieces 
during his leisure moments. The following is cuUed from his sonnets on the 
great English poets. 

MILTOX. 

Into the heaven of heavens I have presumed, 
An earthly guest, and drawn Empyreal fire. 

Pakadise Lost, b. vii 

Irreyerext Milton I bold I deem thy flight ; 
Unsanctified, unbidden, thou didst wing 
Thy pathless way off tow'rd the secret spring 

Of God's decrees, and read them not aright ; 

Thoti sottght to do what no man mortal might. 
Still thence a speech majestical didst bring, 
And there o'erheard some angels whispering 

Of Eden's bliss, and from thy lofty height 

Surveyed all starry space both far and wide. 

And saw hell's deepest depths and torttires dire. 

And viewed the darkling works of demon pride. 
And in the glowings of poetic fire, 

What time thy heart felt age's chilly hand, 

^Embodied all in language stately, grand. 



Miscella ny 755 



EEV. CHARLES WOLFE. 

Charles Wolfe was bom at Dublin in 1791, and died at Cork in 1823. He 
belonged to the same Irish family as the celebrated Gen. Wolfe who took Quebec. 
He wrote little ; indeed, his fame rests on the ' ' Burial of Sir John Moore, '' 
which is, perhaps, as widely known as any other production in the English lan- 
guage. A minister of the Anglican Establishment, Rev. Mr, Wolfe was an 
amiable, scholarly man. 

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHJ?" MOORE. - 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
The sods with our bayonets turning — 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest. 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead. 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, 

And smooth'd down his lonely pillowy 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head. 

And we far away on the billow. 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone. 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 

In the gi'ave where his comrades have laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done. 

When the bell toll'd the hour for retiring ; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 



756 The Prose a7id Poeti-y of Ireland, 

Slowly aud sadly we laid him down. 

From the field of liis fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, we raised not a stone.. 
Bnt we left him alone with his dorv. 



WILLIAM COLLTXS. 

William: Collets is a Catholic, and a native of L-eland. A poet of rare 
gifts, he enjoys a wide and well-deserved reputation. In connection with his 
friend, J. C. Curtin, he edits the 2s ew York /ri^A GldbCy ot which he is one of 
the founders and proprietors, Mr. Curtin being the other. 

THE AIAKIXEE'S ETZXIXG ETODN". 

Eyexixg's shadows fall aronnd us. 

And the sun sets on the sea, 
"With thy love, Grod I STUTonnd us. 

Trustingly we pray to thee : 
Sin, with all its snares, has bound ns. 
Thou canst cleanse and make us free. 

Darkness falls upon the ocean- 

And the waves in anger leap, 
And our barque, with troubled motion. 

Heaves and trembles on the deep : 
But our hearts, witli true devotion, 

K"earer to thy footstool creep. 

Though the winds in wrath are blowing. 

Thou the tempest can command. 
Safe beneath thy guidance going, 

TTe shall hail the welcome land : 
And though fierce the waves are flowing. 

Power and strenofth are in thv hand. 

Father, as the night descending 

Hides the sun's last grolden rav. 
Hear our hearts and voices blending 

As to thee we fondly pray. 
That thou, love and grace extending. 

All our sins shalt wash awav. 



Miscellany. ,757 



T. E. HOWARD. 

T. E. Howard, M.A., LL.B., Professor of History and English Literature in 
the University of Notre Dame, Indiana, is a native of Michigan, but is truly 
Irish by blood and faith and sympathy. Aside from several minor works, he 
has published a highly meritorious volume of essays entitled, "Excelsior; or, 
Essays on Politeness and Education." Some of his poems are real gems. 

CHIMES. 

Beauty's spirit lingers 

O'er the spot I love ; 
Well I know tliat angel fingers 

Paint the blue above ; 
Well I know they listen 

To the Vesper song 
Where the silent planets glisten 

As they float along — 
Listen to the chiming. 

Praises of the Lamb 
As they tremble from the rhyming 

Bells of Notre Dame. ^ 

Swell, ye sounds caressing, 
On the midnight air, 

All this silence bathed in blessing 
Wake to God and prayer ; 

Wearied man is sleeping- 
Prom the toilsome dav, 

Tune the soft dreams o'er him creeping ; 
Music, watch and pray ! 

So the forest looming 
On the distant calm 

Echoes back your silvery booming, 
Bells of Notre Dame ! 

When the morning lightens 

On the eastern sky. 
And the spire-top glows and brightens 

As the sun rolls nigh, 

* The church attached to the famous Catholic University of Notre Dame, Indiana. It 
is said to possess the best chime of bells in America. 



758 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

Shed your jDeals to duty 

O'er the earth imj^earled. 
Give to sparkling morning beauty, 

Tongue to rouse the world. 
As your songs of gladness. 

Matin hymn, and psalm, 
Wake our souls and cheer their sadness. 

Bells of Notre Dame I 



RICHAED DALTON WILLIAMS. 

EiCHARD Dalton Williams WES an Irish Catholic, and a poet of high merit. 
He was born in 1822, came to the United States, and died at Thibodeaux, La., in 
1862. ' ' We cannot recall anything in English literature that, in tender pathos 
and beauty of expression, surpasses ' The Dying Girl.' Williams, while a medi- 
cal student at Dublin, wrote this exonisite poem after a visit to one of the 
hospitals." * 

THE DYIKG GIRL. 

From a Munster vale they brought her. 

From the pure and balmy air, 
An Ormond peasant's daughter, 

With blue eyes and golden hair. 
They brought her to the city. 

And she faded slowly there ; 
Consumption has no pity 

For blue eyes and golden hair. 

When I saw her first reclining 

Her lips were moved in prayer. 
And the setting sun was shining 

On her loosened golden hair. 
When our kindly glances met her. 

Deadly brilliant was her eye, j, 

And she said that she was better. 

While w^e knew that she must die. 

She speaks of Munster valleys. 

The patron, dance, and fair. 
And her thin hand feebly dallies 

With her scattered golden hair. 

* •' Popular History of the Catholic Church in the United States," Appendix. 



Miscellany, 759 

When silently we listened 

To her breath with quiet care, 
Her eyes with wonder glistened. 

And she asked us what was there. 

The poor thing smiled to ask it, 

And her pretty mouth laid bare, 
Like gems within a casket, 

A string of pearlets rare. 
We said that we were trying. 

By the gushing of her blood, 
And the time she took in sighing, 

To know if she were good. 

Well, she smiled and chatted gaily. 

Though we saw, in mute despair. 
The hectic brighter daily, 

And the death-dew on her hair. 
And oft her wasted fingers, 

Beating time upon the bed. 
O'er some old tune she lingers. 

And she bows her golden head. 

At length the harp is broken. 

And the spirit in its strings. 
As the last decree is sjioken. 

To its source exulting springs. 
Descending swiftly from the skies. 

Her guardian angel came : 
He struck God's lis^htnino- from her eves. 

And bore him back the flame. 

Before the sun had risen. 

Through the lark-loved morning air, 
Her young soul left its prison, 

Undefiled by sin or care. 
I stood beside the couch in tears, 

Where pale and calm she slept. 
And thouo^h I've 2:azed on death for vears, 

I blush not that I wept. 



760 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, 

I checked ■^•ith effort pity's siglis. 
And left the matrou there 

To close the curtains of her eyes. 
And bind her ofolden hair. 



RET. FRAXCIS MAHONEY. 

The Ret. Fraxcis Mahont, better known by his ncyri de plume of ** Father 
Prout," was bom at Cork in 1800. He made his studies at the Propaganda, was 
ordaiaed priest, but devoted his life to literary pursuits. He died a few years 
ago. The " ' Bells of Shandon " is one of the • • things of beauty " that came from 
his graceful pen. 

THE BELLS OF SHAXDOX. 

With deep aSection and recollection 

I often think of those Shandon bells. 
"VThose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood, 

Fling round my cradle their magic spells. 
On this I ponder where'er I wander,. 

And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee. 
With thy hells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in. 

Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine: 
While at a glih rate brass tongues would vibrate, 

But all their music spoke naught like thine ; 
For memory, dwelling on each proud swelling 
Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free, 
^lade the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 

Pve heard bells tolling '' old Adrian's Mole *' in. 
Their thtmder rolling from the Vatican, 

And cymbals glorious swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeotis turrets of Xotre Dame : 

Bttt thv sounds are sweeter than the dome of Peter 

Flings o'er the Tiber pealing solemnly. 



Miscellany, 'jGi 



Oh ! the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 



There's a bell in Moscow, while on tower and kiosko 

In St. Sophia the Turkman gets, 
And loud in air calls men to prayer 

From the tapering summit of tall minarets. 
Such empty phantom I freely grant them ; 
But there's an anthem more dear to me : 
'Tis the bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 



DEAREST MARY. 

Love me, dearest Mary ! 

No honey-speech I own, 
Nor talisman to win you, save 

This true, fond heart alone. 
I cannot offer rank or gold — 

Such things I never knew — 
But all one human heart can hold 

Of love, I'll give to yon, 

Mary ! 

Of love, I'll give to you. 

For you were aye unto me. 

From boyhood to this hour. 
That sweet to which all bright thoughts clung 

Like bees around a flower. 
The whisp'ring tree, the silent moon, 

The bud beneath the dew. 
All, by the fairy hand of love. 

Were linked with thoughts of you, 

Mary ! 

Were linked with thoughts of you. 



762 The Prose and Pocti-y of Ireland. 

Were ever linked with you, love, 

And when I rose to part 
From, scenes that long had nnrsed my soul. 

From many a kind old heart. 
Though sad to earth and vale and stream 

And friends to bid adieu. 
Yet still my soul in silence wept 

Until I thought of you, 

Mary ! 

Until I thousrlit of vou ! 



Oh I since, 'mid life's unquiet. 

Through many a winny storm, 
What lay hke hoj)e within my breast. 

And kept its ctu'rents warm ? 
What, when the night shone gemmed with stars. 

Was brighter than the blue. 
And sweeter than my toil-earn'd sleep ? 

The memory of you, 

Mary I 

The memorv of vou I 



And now I have won a home, dear, 

Xot verv ofrand or hisfh. 
But still with qtdte enough to meet 

The day that's passing by : 
With one bright room where we might sit. 

And have a friend or two — 
Ay ! bright, I say, for oh I 'tis lit 

With hope 'twill yet see you, 

Mary I 

With hope 'twill yet see you ! 



Then love me, dearest Mary ! 

^o honey-speech I own, 
Xor talisman to win you, save 

This true, fond heart alone. 



Miscellany, 76^ 

I cannot offer rank or gold — 

Such tilings I never knew — 
But all oue human heart can hold 
Of love 1*11 give to you, 

Mary I 
Sacli love I'll give to you I 

— M. MacDermot. 



SIR CAHm O'DOHERTY/ 

By the Sj^anish plum'd hat and costly attire, 
And the dark eye that's blended of midnight and fire, 
And the bearing and stature so princely and tall, 
Sir Cahir you'll know in the midst of them all. 

Like an oak on the land, like a ship on the sea, 
Like the eagle above, strong and haughty is he ; 
In the greenness of youth, yet he's crowned, as his due, 
"With the fear of the false and the love of the true. 

Right fiercely he swoops on their plundering hordes ; 
Right proudly he dares them, the j^roud English lords ! 
And darkly you'll trace him by many a trail 
From the hills of the Korth to the heart of the Pale 

By red field, ruined keep, and fire-shrouded hall. 
By the tramp of the charger o'er buttress and wall. 
By the courage that springs in the breach of despair, 
Like the bound of the lion erect from his lau'. 

O^Neill and O'Donnell, Masfuire and the rest. 
Have sheathed the sabre and lowered the crest ; 
O'Kane is now crushed, and MacMahon is bound. 
And Magennis slinks after the foe like his hound. 

3 Sir Cahir O'Doherty, son of Sir John O'Doherty, chief of Innishowen, was bom in 
1587, and was killed, fighting against the English, in 1608. He was described as "a man 
to be marked amongst a thousand— a man of the loftiest and proudest bearing in Ulster. 
His Spanish hat, with the heron's plume, was too often the terror of his enemies and the 
rallying-point of his friends not to bespeak the O'Doherty." He was the last of the Ulster 
chieftains. After his death the English did as they had done with other Irish chiefs — 
they seized his castle and lands, and the robbers still possess them. 



764 TJu Prose and Poetry of Irelajid. 

But liigh and nutrimmed, o'er the valley and height 
Soars the proud, sTveeiDing pinion, so young in its flight ; 
The toil and the danger are brav-'d all alone 
By the fierce-taloned falcon of old Innishowen. 

And thus runs his story : he fought and he fell. 
Young, honored, and brave — so the seanacliies tell — 
The foremost of those who have sruarded '*' the sreen,*' 
When men wrote their names with the sword and the skian. 

— Makt Eva Kelly. 



:mary. 



Maet ! sweet name revered above, 
And oh I how dear below ! 

In it are hope and holy love. 
And blessings from it flow. 

Mary I what music in that sound ! 
Pure hps breathe it at even ; 
*•' Ave Maria,'*' sings earth round, 
And souls look up to Heaven ! 

Mary I bright angels speak that name 
With rev'rence, soft and low ; 

And God Himself, ever the same. 
His love for it did show. 

Mary I to me that name recalls 
The Queen who reigns above, 

An angel sister in Heaven's halls. 
And one, worthy of love. 

Mary I bright star of heavenly rest, 
I love thy name and thee ; 

Mother purest, Virgin ever blest, 
Look down and pray for me. 



J. 0"K. M. 



Miscellany. 765 

THE BIHTHDAY GREETINa. 

Ma douce amie, I greet thee, 
In this merry month of May, 
So blooming, blest, and lovely — 
Suited for thy own birthday. 
May bright skies e'er shine o'er thee, 
And choice graces strew thy way; 
Eejoice — may angels bless thee 
Yearly on thy own birthday. 

During this gay month of flowers, 
Of the dear, spotless Queen of May, 
How sweet to think of those bright hours 
Ere shadows dim life's sunlit way ! 
Eound thy path white lilies twine, 
True emblems of that soul of thine, 
Yearning to grow e'er more divine. 

J. O'K. M. 




GEXERAL INDEX. 



Absolute, Sir Anthony, 321. 

Adventures of Father O'Grady. 712. 

After the Battle, 516. 

Age, 103. 

Aileen, 418. 

A Lay Sermon, 743. 

A Meditation upon a Broomstick, 176. 

A Xation Once Again, 447. 

A Nation's Test, 748. 

A Xew Life, 745. 

Angel's "VThisper. 741. 

Am I remembered in Erin? 666. 

An Answer to a Friend's Question, 

130. 
An Excellent Xew Song. 182. 
A Picture of Suffering Ireland, 370. 
A Place in thy Memory, Dearest, 391* 
A Quaker in a Stage-Coach, 111. 
Archbishop Murray, 500. 
A Small Catechism, 658. 
A Treatise on Good Manners, 177. 
Azarias, Brother, 754. 

Banim, .John, 412. 

Barbaiities of Cromwell in Ireland, 

714. 
Before the Battle, 515. 
Believe me, if all those endearing 

Young Charms, 514. 
Bells of Shandon, 760. 
Benburb, Battle of, 699. 
Birthday Greeting. 765. 
Boru, Brian. Account of his Reign, 

53. 
Breasting the World, 747. 
Bride of Mallow 444. 
Brodar. 70. 
Burial of Sir .John Moore, 755. 



Burke, Edmund, 294. 
Burke, Father T. X., 717. 

Canadian Boat Song, 521. 

Carolan, 235. 

Catholics of Ireland, Speech ou, 4-59. 

Ceasair, 49. 

Chimes, 757. 

Chinese Letters, 239. 

Clare's Dragoons, 450. 

Ciontarf , Battle of, 69. 

Collins. William, 756. 

Columbkille, ] 3. 

Columbus, 753. 

Constellation of the Plough, 753. 

Criticism on England, 246. 

Davis. Thomas, 441. 

Dearest Mary, 761., 

Dear Harp of my Country, 520. 

Death of Orr, 713. 

Death of the Homeward Bound, 661 

Declaration of Irish Rights, Speech 

on, 338. 
Definition of a Gentleman, 104. 
Deserted YiUage, The, 197. 
Dialogue between St. Columbkille 

and Cormac, 30. 
Dialogue between Sir A. Absolute 

and Mrs. Malaprop, 321. 
Doyle. Right Rev. Dr., 357. 
Drapier Letters, The, 167. 
Dry be that Tear, 320. 
Du5y, C. G., 742. 
Dying Girl. 758. 

Education. 375. 

Edwin and Anselina. 234. 



767 



768 



General Index. 



Elegy on a Mad Dog, 230. 
Elegy on Demar. the Miser, 128. 
Elegy on Madame Blaize, 239. 
Epigram, 134. 
Epitaph, 184. 
Epitaphs, 281. 
Epicurean, The, 525. 
Erin, O Erin ! 15 
Essays of Goldsmith, 232. 

Fare thee Well, my Native Dell, 393. 
Fidelia ; or, the Dutiful Daughter, 

109. 
First Extract from " The Annals of 

the Four Masters," 48. 
Fontenoy, 448. 
Fourth Extract from ' ' The Annals 

of the Four Masters," 87. 
Francis, Sir Philip, 274. 

Glance at Westminster Abbey, 250. 
Goldsmith, Oliver, 192. 
Good Manners, Essay on, 177. 
Grattan, Henry, 331. 
Green above the Red, 455. 
Griffin, Gerald, 383. 
Grub Street Elegy, 125. 
Gulliver's Travels, 148. 

Home Memories, 694. 

Howard, T. E., 757. 

How Kings Reward, 248. 

I Love my Love in the Morning, 388. 

I Love Thee, Mary, 665. 

Ireland by Moonlight, 692. 

I saw thy Form in Youthful Prime, 

517. 
It is Easy to Die, 665. 
It is the Shannon's Stream, 394. 

Jacques Cartier, 662. 
J. K. L,, Letters of, 365. 
Junius, Letters of, 275. 

Kane, Sir Robert, 76, 
Kavanaghs, 85. 



Laetitia and Daphne : A Tale, 100. 
Lecture on the Chief Existing Irish 

Books, 630. 
Let Erin Remember, 513. 
Letters of Archbishop MacHale, 675. 
Letters of Dr. Doyle, 376. 
Letters of Junius, 277. 
Letters of Goldsmith, 257. 
Letters of Griffin, 407. 
Letters of Banim, 432. 
Letters of O'Connell to Dr. MacHale, 

479. 
Letters of Steele to his Wife, 114. 
Letters of Swift, 181. 
Letter to a IS'oble Lord, 306. 
Letter to the Archbishop of Aix, 311. 
Like the Oak by the Fountain, 393. 
Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette, 

304. 
Love's Longings, 445. 
Lover, Samuel, 741. 

MacBrien, 82. 

MacCarthy, 83. 

MacCoughlan, 82. 

MacDermot, 79. 

MacGillapatrick, 84. 

MacGeoghegan, 84. 

MacNamara, 87. 

MacHale, Archbishop, 670. 

MacMahon, 76. 

Magennis, 78. 

Maguire, 75. 

Mahony, Francis ("Father Prout"),. 
j 760. 
{ Malaprop, Mrs., 321. 

Mariner's Evening Hymn, 750. 

Marie Antoinette, 305. 

Mary, 764. ' 

May, 752. 

McGee, Thomas D'Arcy, 653. 

Meditation upon a Broomstick, 176. 

Milton, 754. 

Mina, 744. 

Moore, Thomas, 502. 

Mrs. Malaprop, 321. 

Murray, Archbishop, 500. 



General Index. 



769 



My Land, 446. 

My Spirit is Gay, 389. 
Nationality, 452. 

New Song on Wood's Halfpence, 
132. 

O'Beirne, 79. 

O'Boyle 76. 

O'Brien, 81. 

O'Carroll, 82. 

O'Clery, Michael, 39. 

O'ConnelL Daniel, 463. 

O'Connell, Daniel, Sketch of, by 

Shell, 497. 
O'Curry, Eugene, 627. 
O'Connor, 79. 
O'Dempsey, 85. 
O'Doherty, 76. 

O'Doherty, Sir Cahii: a Poem, 763. 
O'Donnell, First of the Name, 62, 

75. 
O'Driscoll, 84. 
O'Dunn, 85. 
O'Dwyer, 82. 
O'Gallagher, 76. 
Oh ! for a Steed ! 453. 
O'Kane, Sketch of the Family, 76, 

note. 
O'Kane, Cooey, 77, note. 
O'Kane, Gen. Daniel, 78, note. 
O'Kelly, 80. 
Old Times, 395. 
O'Loughlin, 81. 
O "Madden, 80. 
O'Mahony, 83. 
O'Murray, Auliffe, 45. 
O'Neill, 75, 78, 87. 
O'Neill, Hugh, 85. 
On Music, 517. 
O'Reilly, John Boyle, 748. 
O'Rourke, 78. 
O'Sullivan, 83. 
Oh ! the Shamrock, 518. 
O Thou who Driest the Mourner's 

Tear ! 523. 

Parties in Ireland, 365. 



Penal Days, 456. 

Philippic against Flood, 349. 

Poem on the Death of Swift, 135. 



Quaker in a Stage-Coach. Ill 

Rebuke to the Ignorant Know-Noth- 

ings, 667. 
Record of Columbkille's Churches, 

27. 
Remains of an Old Irish Poem, 35. 
Remember the Glories of Brian the 

Brave, 512. 
Retaliation : a Poem, 218. 
Rich and Rare were the Gems she 

Wore, 510. 
Right Road, 457. 
Reply to Corry. 353. 



Sadlier, Mrs. J., 690. 

Savage, John, 744. 

Scandal -Bearers Bad-hearted, 106. 

Scene in a Galway School -room, 695. 

Second Extract from "The Annals 

of the Four Masters," 50. 
Shell, Richard Lalor, 483. 
Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 314. 
Soggarth Aroon, 417. 
Spectator Club, 95. 
Speech on the Declaration of Irish 

Rights, 338. 
Speech against Flood, 349. 
Speech in Reply to Bellew, 468. 
Speech against Corry, 346. 
Speech against Pitt's lucome-Tax, 

325. 
Speech on the Irish Rebellion, 324. 
Speech on American Taxation, 300. 
Speech on the Irish Catholics and 

their Religion, 485. 
Speech on the Catholic Question, 

348. 
Steele, Sir Richard, 89. 
Study, 459. 
Swift, Jonathan, 117. 



/ 



77° 



Geiieral hidex. (L. ) ^ i^ 



r-CK • 



The Birthday Greeting, 765. 

The Catholic Religion, 373 

The Dean's Manner of Living, 131. 

The Death of Swift : a Poem, 135. 

The Deserted Village : a Poem. 197. 

The Irish People in their Relation to 

Catholicity,' 719. 
The Traveller : a Poem, 208. 
The Irish as a Religious People, 368. 
The Song of Trust. 36. 
The Praise of St. Bridget, 37. 
The Battle of Benburb, 699, 
The Meeting of the Waters, 509 ; in 

Irish, 675. 
The Student's Adieu, 364. 
The Harp that once through Tara's 

Halls, 511 . 
The Song of Fionnuala, 513. 
The Last Rose of Summer, 519. 
The Minstrel Boy, 520. 
The Reconciliation, 419. 
The Epicurean : a Tale, 525. 
The Stolen Sheep : a Tale, 420. 
The Bird let Loose, 524. 
The Dying Celt to his American 

Son, 656. 
The Celtic Cross, 657. 
The Spectator Club, 95. 
The Sister of Charity, 396. 
The Shanty, 659. 
The Choice of Friends. 398. 
The Blessed Virgins Knight, G63. 
The Village Ruin : a Tale, 399. 



The Catholic Church and the Irish 

in America, 668. 
Third Extract from " The Annals of 

the Four Masters, ' 73. 
This World is all a Fleeting Sho^r, 

522. 
Thou art, O God ! 523. 
Though the Last Glimpse of Erin 

with Sorrow I See, 507. 
Tipperary, 458. 
To Miss il. Sadlier, 660. 
To-day, 751. 
To Stella, 131. 
To the Blessed Virgin, 398. 
To the Recording Angel, 321. 

Vere, Aubrey de, 752. 
Vere, Sir Aubrey de, 753. 
Voyage to Lilliput, 148. 
Voyage to Brobdignag, 157. 

Wakefield, Famiiy of, 236. 

Were not the Sinful Mary's Tears, 

521. 
Whang, the Miller, 254. 
When Cormac Came to St. Columb- 

kille : a Poem, 38. 
When he who Adores Thee, 511. 
Williams. R. D., 758. 
Wolfe, Charles, 755. 

You never bade me Hope, 392. 



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